


Under His Umbrella

by Hestia01



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Relationship, Cake, F/M, Some feeding fixation, Umbrellas, author insert, not even sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2072358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hestia01/pseuds/Hestia01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft gets a new personal assistant.  Two naturally repellant creatures are drawn together</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unashamed wish fulfillment ahead. You've been warned.

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, drumming his fingers together. He'd just sat through a series of tedious interviews with potential replacements for his P.A. All had seemed eager to please and able-minded enough, passing the tests and simulations he'd put them through with varying degrees of competence. It wasn't until this last one that he'd found someone that really stuck out. He'd just dismissed the girl, remarking he had a fair number left to see when she'd given him the most sincere look of pity, rolling her eyes and snarling, “Ugh, _humans!_ ” That certainly got his attention. An evil smirk crept across his face and his eyes glinted sharply. He bared his teeth with a short exhalation which may have been a laugh.

“When can you start?”

The girl gasped in surprise, bringing a hand to her mouth, looking as though he'd just given her the pet pony she'd wanted since she was seven. Quickly, she pulled herself together. “Immediately, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft squinted at her curiously. For a second there, it almost sounded as though she'd begun an sh-sound before addressing him as “sir”. He hadn't detected a speech impediment in her interview. That would have immediately disqualified her. Anyone seen by or around him in such a position must have perfect enunciation. His almost amiable expression dissolved into a scowl of warning, and the young woman could see why he had the reputation for being...intimidating. “Don't disappoint me. Now. There are only one or two little issues with your credentials. First of all, your name--”

“Jen,” she told him, “Spelled just like it sounds, nothing fancy.”

He scowled, circling her like a vulture. “No. From now on, your name is Vesta. Understand? I cannot and will not be followed around by someone with a name as common as that. You represent me, do you understand? You are to be my right arm. I will not have a right arm with a name trotted out by every other miserable urchin on the street! What is your name?”

She paused, staring at him with wide eyes. She hadn't expected this! “Vesta?”

“The Roman goddess of fire,” he purred. “Do live up to it. Another thing: are all of your clothes like this?”

Jen, newly named Vesta, looked at what she had on. A simple black skirt, just above the knee, with a white blouse and pink silk scarf thrown in for colour. The outfit was far from new, but it still held up over the years, she thought. “Do you mean identical?”

“I mean in tatters. I wouldn't have my shoes shined with these rags. This particular outfit,” he snidely sneered, “is obviously approximately eight years old, has been washed to threads, and yet you save it for special occasions when you wish to look smart. I did not hire you for your fashion sense, but I shudder to imagine the rest of your wardrobe.” Vesta flushed, unable to think of anything to say to this. “Give me your measurements. I will see you are suitably attired before the day is out.” He swooped in an inch away from her face, muttering, “Green eyes, I like that. No black on you, it would wash you out. Hmm...” Mycroft then goes to a drawer in his desk and pulls out a tailor's tape measure. “Lift up your arms,” he commanded. His new personal assistant looked shocked, but obeyed. He took her measurements quickly and clinically, not looking the least bit embarrassed by doing this. When Mycroft measured her waist, he clicked his tongue, muttering that she was too skinny. He wrote it down in a small leather-bound notepad along with her height, skin tone, and colour of her eyes. He snapped a picture of her and sent that, as well as her other information, to a number of reputable clothing shops in London. All the while, he continued his lecture, “Remember you represent me, we both have an image to uphold. I won't be taken seriously if--”

“If you're seen followed around by a common gutter brat?”

Mycroft smiled at her genuinely, pointing his umbrella at her, “I knew you'd catch on. If you have any possessions you wish to keep for sentimental reasons, gather them quickly and efficiently and return. I'll order you a cab. Everything else, like your old life, your name, your personal contacts, must be left behind. Your needs will be seen to. You needn't worry. And here,” he handed her a Blackberry. “All necessary contacts are saved. My sources tell me your parents died last year.”

Vesta's eyes looked steely and unaffected, “Yes, sh-sir.” She cringed inwardly, dreading his sympathy before it was even offered. People died, it was a fact of life. She wished more people could understand that and stop offering her unneeded, insincere consolation.

“Good. That makes it nice and tidy, doesn't it?”

She gave a sharp laugh, having never known someone who had seen it that way before. It had been a blessing, really. Neither of her parents wanted to live past their useful years. Dying suddenly in a car crash beat wasting away in a nursing home. Her reasoning was considered morbid by her peers, so to hear her new employer see the good in what others would deem tragic loss, brought him up in her opinion. They felt...similar. Vesta returned his crocodile smile with a good feeling about her new place.

At her second, more pronounced apparent lateral lisp, Mycroft gave her another odd look. Then, it hit him. He looked at her resume again. In addition to her recent history of work as an administrative assistant, he saw she had gone to culinary school and had a few years' worth of restaurant experience. The knee-jerk utterance of “Yes, chef. No, chef,” was a hard habit to break. And was the highest token of admiration and respect that such a person could give another. He would almost put it on par with military training, the rigours, the discipline. He looked forward to working with her.

“That will be all. Tell the others to go away. Humans,” he huffed with a distasteful expression.

Vesta nodded, and went out into the foyer, where she sent the remaining applicants to slink away dejectedly. She skipped down the stone steps and hopped into the cab that was waiting for her. They just pulled away from the house when her new phone rang. Her heart jumped as she answered it.

“Hello?”

“I expect you back here in precisely two hours. I've accounted the expected travel time, including stop lights and traffic of this time of day, as well as the time it ought to take you to gather your things. I've already sent people to begin the job for you. It shan't take you long once you arrive. Also, I've made arrangements for your cat.”

“My cat?!”

“Yes, I've found quite a good home for him, actually. No need to thank me. I simply would not allow the creature in my home.” He practically heard her thoughts on this, _In his...home?_ “Yes, you will be moving in here. I shall require you at any hour of my choosing, so it is only practical that we live under the same roof.”

“Uh, yes, sir. Very...convenient.” The cab pulled to a stop and she went up the stairs to gather her possessions. Sure enough, she found a trio of ominous-looking men in black suits sifting through her things. The donation bins filled with her clothes and shoes made it all the more clear that she was leaving her old life behind. 

She went to the kitchen and dug out a rolled-up black canvas case. Spreading it on the counter, she slid in her best set of knives, garnishing tools, and utensils. From her spice cabinet, she collected her treasured array of good seasonings and finishing salts. She didn't expect that he would require her to cook as part of her job, but she couldn't bear to part with them. Looking in her bedroom, she found that all of her clothes had been discarded. She was never one to take pictures, so there weren't any of those to deal with. She ducked into her closet and removed a childhood treasure: a stuffed animal of dubious species that had gone everywhere she had gone in the past thirty years. Also, a large pink and purple checked quilt. Vesta had to hand it to her new boss's efficiency. She wondered about the wardrobe he had planned for her. What would be her required work clothes, what would she be allowed to wear on her own time? Would she even get days off, living with him like that? For some reason, the thought made her blush. She picked out a few comfortable novelty t-shirts and put them in the box she's started. She made one last look around, declaring, “Donate the rest.”

Vesta descended the stairs and returned to the waiting cab with her one box. When she entered her boss's home—she couldn't quite think of it as her home yet—she was met by a very surprised-looking Mycroft Holmes.

“You're back early,” he remarked. His gaze drifted down to the box she was carrying. “That's all?”

“You told me to be as efficient as possible, and to only take what was irreplaceable.”

“Yes, well done. Here, look at this. Not a bad likeness, I'd say,” Mycroft drawled, handing her his phone. It was open to a news story about a woman who died from gas poisoning just that morning. The victim looked remarkably like... “Congratulations, you're dead. That was easy enough, wasn't it? My brother and his team really outdid themselves, and on short notice, too. Helps to have a reliable contact in the morgue.” He plucked his phone back out of her grasp, leaving her to reel at how much has happened in the space of a few hours.

“Follow me,” Mycroft commanded, “I'll show you which rooms you are to go into and which rooms you are to leave alone.” He led her back into his office. “Don't think you've landed yourself a cushy office desk job, the position may not involve much legwork, but the importance of the job and what it entails cannot be overstated. I did you the favor of printing out a sample of my previous assistant's typical agenda. It will alter from day to day, of course, but it will suffice as a rough estimate. We'll see if we can break you in with something fun,” he chuckled to himself.

Vesta took in his leering, posturing attitude with a smile, feeling like she'd certainly landed on her feet here. This was someone she could get on with. She could tell that beneath his cold and forbidding exterior, he wasn't all bad. She already liked his sense of humour: dry, dark, not altogether appropriate for most people.

They continued the grand tour of the house through the dining room. Vesta would be expected to join him for meals which he would treat as regular briefings. Keeping the country running from the comfort of his own home. On their occasional days off, she may do as she wished, but with the understanding that she was technically on call 24/7/365.

“You see, it's not all that difficult,” he explained, strolling casually, twirling his umbrella as he went. "It's all a matter of proper communication.”

Vesta grinned, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the impressive figure her boss struck. “Sounds like it. All we need is enough people, product, and time. Just like working Valentine's Day.”

“Ah, yes. You're no stranger to stress on the job, then. Perfect. And your mise?”

“Always en place,” she answered with a grin. They tittered together, having made an office joke in butchered French. “I do speak a little French, actually, if that helps. I read it better.”

“Well, I'm sure it won't be a detriment, at any stretch. Shows you're versatile, that's good.” He pointed up the stairs with his umbrella, “Up this way, to the right,” he told her, indicating she go up ahead of him. Mycroft fell behind, taking out his pocket watch, drawing a thumb over a clear purple amethyst on its silver fob. He sighed heavily. “So sorry,” he whispered to no one, before putting it back in his pocket and climbing the stairs to catch up. The chain drooped out of his pocket as he walked, the sunlight caught an inscription around the jewel, glinting sharply: _Anthea 2009-2014_.

Once he caught up, Mycroft directed her down the hall. “This will be your room.” He led her in, opening the walk-in closet doors that were already filled with her new wardrobe. Vesta stared all around her, amazed! The carpet was so plush she could feel herself sink into it, the bed was huge and made up with crisp white sheets and thick down blankets. All around her, rich mahogany shone in the sun. There was a vanity with a soft-seated stool, already equipped with combs, brushes, a makeup palette, and other preening implements.

“I've taken the liberty of having it prepared for you, but if you should require anything else, feel free to ask someone and it will be taken care of. Well. What do you think?”

Vesta was just peering into the closet, flicking through padded hangers. There were classic business suits for ordinary work days, formal dresses for state affairs, as well as comfortable-looking lounge wear for her down time. There were shoes and purses to match practically every outfit. She slid open cedar drawers and found that her boss had even elected to purchase nightwear and underthings of varying description. A variety of silk, cotton, and fleece dressing gowns hung on brass hooks on the far side of the wardrobe.

Mycroft flicked his umbrella at her, pointing to her feet. “I could tell your shoe size at a glance, I'd advise to take the heels for a test-drive before you wear them anywhere if you're not used to them. They've all been implanted with arch-support so they shouldn't cause you too much discomfort.”

It was so much more than she'd ever expected. It was a full minute before Vesta could even find her voice. “Thank you,” she said, although she felt that to be a gross understatement.

“Change. Now. Keep the scarf, though, that's...actually quite charming. The rest will be disposed of. All of it.” He stalked up to her, nose to prominent nose, drawing a slender finger along the material around her neck with a grin. Vesta shivered. As he sauntered out, he swung his umbrella carelessly, “Some of the clothes may feel a bit loose to begin with, but you're too skinny. That will be attended to. From the look of you, I'd think you didn't know where your next meal was coming from. Don't worry, you'll be healthy-looking in no time. I'll leave you to get situated; be downstairs by seven thirty. I'm afraid I'm rigidly punctual about mealtimes. Be ready to take notes.”

Vesta shut the door, gazing all around her again. She'd never even imagined a room as rich as this! On the nightstand sat a sleek black tablet in a soft burgundy cover. She opened it and turned it on, and found he'd loaded it with a variety of books and music, several gigabytes worth. She selected a playlist of film scores to relax to. She had a little over an hour to herself and she was keen to make the most of it. She'd never imagined actually getting this job, even less did she imagine all that it would entail. Her new boss struck her as someone she could understand, someone she could work for and enjoy his company. They seemed to have similar sensibilities. That went a long way in determining their working relationship. Still, she had to admit that there was something confining about her situation. Given a new name, a new life, right down to her underwear! She didn't miss the way he'd commanded “all of it.” Was this how he demonstrated control over her? To remind her that all she had in the world came from him now? Oddly, that thought made her blush with the strangest sensation of magnetism.

Vesta stripped off her old clothes, tossing them aside, except for the scarf, which she kept on. There had been that hint of a command that she keep it on for now. She inspected the dresser, where there was a line of different body sprays and perfumes for her to choose from. She spritzed herself over with a white lily mist, which was instantly refreshing. Not sure what she was expected to wear, Vesta selected a light linen suit. Much nicer than anything she'd owned, but in her new life she supposed it wouldn't be seen as anything too special. The new clothes were a comfortable fit, although her boss was right, they felt about a size too large. She remembered his none-too-veiled promise to plump her up a bit to make her acceptable. Inspecting her figure in the full-length mirror, she had to agree with him. She wasn't starving to death, but another ten pounds would look good on her. She thought of him with an ironic smile. He was one to talk about being too skinny.

The pink of her scarf was a perfect contrast to the summery green suit she put on. Once dressed, she attended to her hair. Normally, she combed through it while it was still wet from the shower and tucked it in either a ponytail or held it back with a headband. In a drawer in the vanity, she found a set of rollers. Once they were heated up, she wrapped sections of her hair in it to lend control to her natural waves. While she waited for them to set, Vesta picked a book on her tablet and started to read. She had a timer set so she wouldn't forget and burn her hair off. Already, her old life felt far away and long ago. It was starting to feel as though she'd always been here. The timer dinged, and the rollers came out. Combing through the curls gave a neat bounce to them, and she pinned it back away from her face with rhinestone-studded barrettes. Next, she examined the makeup. Ordinarily, she didn't wear it unless it was a very special occasion, but she found her fingers reaching for the brushes and adding touches of color here and there. Pale green to accent her eyes, Vesta recalled him mentioning he liked her eyes; a soft smudge of rouge to bring out the natural pink in her cheeks. She felt as though she was getting into costume, into character, as she disappeared into her new life. She dabbed on lipstick, imagining her boss's hands on her waist again with an odd twinge in her stomach.

She checked the clock, 7:20. Just enough time to get downstairs. On the dresser sat her Blackberry and a large leather-bound notepad with a silver pencil attached to it. She took both of them with her, wanting to be prepared for whatever would transpire this evening. Slipping into a pair of white kitten heels, she scurried down the stairs and into the dining room, entering just as Mycroft sat down.

Instinctively, he sprang to his feet at the sight of her, having had it drilled in him from the time he was a child that one always rose for a lady. He stared. Was this the same bedraggled ragamuffin he'd just taken into his employ? For a ludicrous second, he thought of Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn in similar places.

He cleared his throat and pulled a chair out for her. “So, you are civilised after all,” Mycroft observed as she sat across from him. He had a thick portfolio next to his seat. This was obviously going to be about bringing her up to speed with the world at large.

Dinner, as well as the briefing, was elaborate, yet both were delivered in easily digestible courses. One led seamlessly into the next, until Vesta was starting to feel well up to speed with Mycroft's role in this secret world, as well as her own. Through it all, Vesta found herself treated to a meal the like of which she hadn't seen since her days in chef's whites. She'd listened attentively, taking notes on everything her employer told her, eager to live up to such an illustrious and important job. Mycroft was just in the middle of explaining the number of foreign dignitaries with whom she would be in regular contact, when he saw his new P.A.'s eyes glaze over and roll back in her head with a rather unladylike moan. She sat there with her eyes closed and her head tilted slightly back, holding up one finger to signal a time-out. Strangely enough, he found himself obeying, stopping his lecture until she had recovered.

“Finished?” he asked coyly with a mocking smirk.

“Oh, my _god_ , you have got to try that!” Vesta pointed at her boss's plate with her fork, forgetting her place completely amid her ecstasy. A petit filet mignon garnished with crab and bearnaise sauce sat untouched. She'd noticed he barely tasted any of the courses his staff had brought out, as if he was only eating enough to keep himself alive and was not properly enjoying any of it. The newcomer, on the other hand, had cleaned her plate with each course, not requiring any urging on her boss's part to improve her figure.

Mycroft's lips curled in a serpentine grin. “Very well, since it comes so recommended.” He cut off a small bite-sized piece, staring at his assistant's flushed cheeks. She nodded encouragingly with a bright, giddy grin. He popped it into his mouth and paused with a thoughtful expression. He nodded as he swallowed, “You're right, very good.” He looked up at her again with a scowl. “What is it now?”

She sat there, staring at her plate, hugging herself for comfort. “I used to cook like this. I haven't in so long.” Her bright expression faded until she looked like she was about to cry. It was like she was experiencing a suppressed memory, a painful flashback. Indifferent to the newcomer's distress, a servant cleared her empty plate and brought out the cheese and fruit course. Melting d'anjou pears with soft goat cheese in puff pastry, drizzled with honey and balsamic vinegar, garnished with candied walnuts and served with a golden Clavelin wine made the floodgates burst open.

This definitely was more than Mycroft could take. He had no idea what the woman was crying for, and he could think of nothing that would make her stop. He only hoped this would not be a regular thing at dinner. He paid his cheese course much more attention than he had the previous ones, largely for the sake of ignoring the sobbing, sniffling woman sitting across from him. Finally, he tossed down his fork and stood, stalking out to the foyer. He snatched up a package that had come with the rest of Vesta's clothes but had gotten misplaced after delivery. He tore it open and pulled out a parcel of embroidered lace-trimmed handkerchiefs. He stalked back to her seat and thrust one into her hand before perching daintily back in his chair. It had a most peculiar effect: Vesta instantly stopped crying. She stopped her pathetic self-comforting attempt as well. She unfolded the white silk square, staring at it, then at the man who gave it to her.

“Thank you. It's beautiful.”

“Please use it, you're dribbling all over the table,” he ordered brusquely.

Obediently, Vesta dabbed away her tears, careful not to smudge her makeup. She gave her employer a genuine smile of gratitude. “I've never owned anything so pretty. You've given me such nice things. Thank you.”

Mycroft elected not to respond to that. He felt that thanks was wholly unnecessary and only served to make his new personal assistant look like a sniveling peasant. He did not aim to present himself as some “benevolent master” figure. “Yes, fine,” was all he muttered.

When this course was cleared, Vesta was quick to note that only she was brought a dessert. Mycroft didn't seem to be disturbed by this, he was still nose-deep in his folder of world-domination. Vesta spooned up a light and airy chocolate mousse accompanied by a small glass of port.

“Sir? Why didn't you get one?”

Mycroft smirked, getting it in his head to test the girl further. “Well, I didn't finish my meat, so I can't have any pudding,” he replied crisply. His flatly-delivered joke was met with a shriek of laughter, making his grin creep higher. “Classically trained, I see.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Raised right. My dad taught me well.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft lifted his cordial glass and drawled, “To your estimable father. Wouldn't want a Pink Floyd reference to go to waste.” And he drained it in one sip. _There, keep things friendly. Make her comfortable before she starts crying again._ “If you like, I'm sure the kitchen staff wouldn't object if you decided to poke around.”

At that suggestion, she'd forgotten she'd ever heard a word against the man before her. True, while most people didn't realize the extent of his position, he had a reputation for his stark and forbidding nature. “Oh, sir! Yes, I'd love to!”

“Now, you can't expect every day to be this pleasant. Tomorrow, we go to work. I have high expectations of you and it is imperative that you perform your duties admirably.” He rose, stretching his legs before disappearing into his office again.

“Yes, of course. Thank you. I could just hug you,” Vesta gasped.

“Don't. Go on, just don't let them trick you into washing dishes. Good night.”

Happily, she clicked down the hall to the kitchen and what she encountered was music to her ears. Shouting, swearing, clanging, banging, that particular whooshing noise of a flame gone out of control... “Oh! It's just like home!”

With that exclamation, the cooks stopped what they were doing and turned to face the intruder. The sous-chef actually sprang to attention at the sight of their boss's representative. Here stood the smartly-dressed woman who had been moved to tears by their elaborate dinner. Word of her had already trickled back to them.

“Evening, ma'am,” the head chef greeted her. “Need something? Or did you just want to help deck-brush the floor?”

“That depends, do you use wash 'n walk, or just sanitise it with straight quat?” Hearing an apparent lady speak their language got an appreciative laugh all around. “Okay, serious question. What sort of house did I just walk into? Wusthof, Henkel, or Global?”

“I use Wusthof knives, my sous uses Globals,” the chef answered.

“Marvelous! I have a set of Wusthofs myself. Some as a graduation present, some for Christmas.”

“Looks like we have an apprentice,” the chef remarked, wiping his hands on his apron. “If Mr. Holmes ever gives you any time for yourself, you should come down here and show us what you can do. See if you're all talk.”

“I'd like that. Looks like I've got an early wake-up call tomorrow, though, so I'd better turn in. See you later, though!”

 

She returned to the main part of the house and traipsed up the stairs to her room. There, on her bed, she found her notes she took over dinner as well as the rest of the handkerchiefs that Mycroft had given her. Vesta slipped out of her clothes and tossed them into the hamper, slid a silk nightgown over her head and chose a coordinating dressing gown before going to investigate her bathroom. Mycroft's chambers were in the far other corridor, so she knew that she had one to herself. Down in the office, Mr. Holmes heard her delighted squeal and grumbled to himself about hiring someone so easy to please, in that she seemed perfectly delighted with everything. Still, he considered her previous circumstances, thinking of how his brother chose to live as an example. _She'll get used to it. The glitter will wear off in time._

 

Vesta looked around and around at the spacious bathroom. “You could sleep four people in here!” She gasped aloud. “Twice that many if they all knew each other!” She wondered if there were rules about when she was allowed to run water after a certain time. Her old landlord had set limits on such things, since it made so much noise. Not even thinking that it sounded ridiculous, she sent her employer a text.

_Am I allowed to run the bath?_

Mycroft read her query with an evil grin. “Well, she asked. Not her fault if she chooses to walk right into this.” _Yes, I advise you do. --MH_

She pouted a bit at the screen, wondering what to make of his “advice.” She gave herself a whiff and shrugged, and began filling the tub. There was a variety of soaps, scrubs, and bubble baths, as well as a soft bath pillow draped inside the tub. Pinning the rest of her hair up so it wouldn't get wet, Vesta sank luxuriously into the hot water. She had never seen a bathtub this big before. She wasn't tall by any stretch, but she'd always had to bend her knees to lie back in her old tub. Since it was so late, and she'd had her share of wine at dinner, she thought it would be for the best to keep it short. She'd make it a bubble bath later on in the week.

Twenty minutes later, just as Mycroft was coming up to bed, Vesta emerged from her bathroom. He could actually see steam rising from her body.

“Be downstairs at seven o'clock sharp tomorrow,” he ordered shortly before going in his room.

Knowing she had to be up early, and that she had a full day ahead of her, Vesta got right into bed and turned off the lights. As soon as she lay down, however, she found her mind in a whirl over all that had happened to her that day. Equal parts excited and frightened, with a touch of uneasiness about sleeping in a strange place, she tossed and turned for a few hours before finally falling asleep well after midnight.


	2. Slotting in

All too soon, her alarm went off, ripping her out of a deep sleep. It took her a minute to remember where she was, and to find her alarm clock. Once she was showered, dressed, and suitably preened, she scurried downstairs with her notebook and phone in a deep, black shoulder bag.

Mycroft saw her come down and had a bit of a turn. For a second there, he thought he saw...someone else. He steadied himself by the edge of the table before sinking down into his seat. The vision cleared and his new assistant took her seat across from him. As usual, he had a thick folder with him, some of the contents fanned out on the table

“Good morning!”

“Yes, good morning, Vesta. I trust you slept comfortably?” A servant brought out a pot of coffee and two cups. He filled Mycroft's first, doctoring it the way he usually took it. He then hovered by the new girl with a silent question in his eyes.

“Oh, yes. Black, please.” He poured out wordlessly with a smile before Mycroft dismissed him with a wave.

“So,” Mr. Holmes began after his first long drink, “Here is all of your paperwork you need to exist. Driver's license, not that you'll need it, birth certificate, voter registration card...A-levels, passed with flying colours, congratulations,” he smirked. “And this...” he slid a plastic card over to her before any of the rest. “Keep this with you at all times. You'll find it...opens doors. This is you, and it says you're with me. Don't lose it, don't forget it, don't surrender it to anybody for any reason. Also, keys. Gate card, front door, back gate, service entrance.” He glided a key ring over to her which she put in her purse along with her precious all-purpose I.D. He took another sip of coffee, grinning at her with the air of a satisfied sleight-of-hand magician basking in the amazement of a captive audience. “Well, what do you think?”

“Looks like you thought of everything,” Vesta remarked, obviously quite impressed with her boss's thoroughness. She took a sip from her cup with an appreciative hum. “Mmm, Kenya...touch of Brazil, is it? Good choice for this hour.”

Mycroft's brow creased in thought, “For this hour?”

“Well, the lighter the roast, the more caffeine, naturally. I must say, these two varieties marry well.”

“Yes, of course. It's a favorite blend of mine, it's custom-made.” He gave his cup another stir before draining it. A moment later, their server returned to refill cups and bring out a platter of pastries and set two plates before them. Mycroft pushed the pile of baked goods toward his P.A. “You're too skinny,” he reminded her, as if she'd forgotten his earlier pronouncement.

Vesta's hand trembled a bit as she selected a huge, flaky pain au chocolat. She bit into it with a soft moan of pleasure as the crisp pastry broke away in shards around her lips. There had to have been half a pound of chocolate folded into it! She still wasn't sure what to think of the forward way her boss was “remedying” her figure, but she reminded herself there were worse problems she could have right now. At least she didn't have to worry about going hungry. Vesta chanced a look up, and she found herself staring into her boss's eyes as she took another bite. He was smiling silkily, drumming his fingers together. She tried to pace herself, not wanting to make herself sick. Still, her cheeks were soon distended in a most unladylike way. Mycroft stared at her, filing this image away. _Chocoholic,_ he noted. _She can't help herself._

She finally swallowed, washing it down with more coffee, surprised to see that she'd tackled over half of the heart-stopping confection already. “If I may speak freely?” 

Her boss squinted at her with pursed lips, then fluidly spread out a hand, “Very well.”

“You're one to talk.” In a few more bites, her morning treat was gone. She sat back with a slight groan. She was certain she'd just eaten an entire day's worth of calories in less than five minutes.

There was a long pause. “I beg your pardon?”

Vesta bravely pushed the pastries back to her boss. “You're too skinny, too.”

He stared down the platter as if the baked goods heaped upon it were mocking him. He scowled. Her pronouncement was at complete odds with his self-image. He'd heard it repeated for years that he was fat, until he finally carried this belief with him long after it was no longer the case. This stranger was the first person to challenge his supposition. _I'm the smart one, Sherlock is the skinny one...the handsome one. Everybody knows that._ “I don't allow myself such indulgences.” Mycroft inspected the morning's offerings, finding a single blueberry muffin in the mix. He deemed it safe and broke it in half, nibbling daintily as he finished a second cup of coffee. He took a peek at his pocket watch. “I plan to pay my brother a visit this morning. You're to come along and get your feet wet. No rush, though. Have another.” He slid the silver tray until it nearly upset Vesta's cup.

“Oh, no, I couldn't--”

“I insist.”

Something about the way he said that made her blush. That dominating air, she could tell he wasn't accustomed to taking “no” for an answer. It made her wonder what his end goal was, exactly. She took a cranberry scone that had already been split and filled with clotted cream and jam. As she slowly worked her way through it, Vesta felt her blush deepen. In a bizarre way, it felt almost appropriate that a former cook, of recently precarious means, would get a thrill out of being fed up like this. It was uncomfortable to admit, but she had a feeling she was going to enjoy this.

Mycroft smirked triumphantly at Vesta's glowing red cheeks and smeared lips. He enjoyed exercising control when he could, and he easily picked up that she got her share of pleasure out of it as well. “One more?” She gulped and shook her head. “Well, that's enough to be getting on with,” he remarked. “I know what we'll do. We're going to go out and snatch up John Watson, little brother's special friend. Bring him round to Baker Street and we'll have a nice, cozy chat. Get in the Bentley and wait for me.” He buzzed for the chauffeur and wandered back into his office. He had his phone pressed to his ear and a look that said he had a plot hatching.

Vesta obviously had no problem with his plans for his improvement of her, but it might be better to take a more subtle approach. While she was waiting for him, he called a fine chocolaterie and placed an order with them to be delivered and displayed while they were out.

Mycroft then joined his assistant in the car. He looked her over, pleased to see that she was doing some further reading that would help her with her work. He was glad that she was familiarising herself with his vast world. If she had a ready mind, she would have it all down within a week. Already, he expected she would be able to cope if thrown in on her own for a short while. “I do hope I didn't make you too uncomfortable at breakfast, my dear.”

“No, sir,” she murmured, still quite pink. “I guess I wasn't prepared for you being so...interested.”

“You need to give people the impression that you're accustomed to a comfortable lifestyle. There's fashionably slender, and then there's starved. One look at you and anyone would know you weren't born to this class.”

“What difference does that make?”

“The way they'd perceive you, and consequently treat you. We can't have that.”

“No, I suppose not.” Funny, she hadn't considered how much people were judged based on appearances. Mycroft's efforts of making her over seemed less like control issues and more like the need to look the part, protecting her in a way.

He looked out the window as they got farther into town. “I'd better hop up front. I'll let you take the reins here. Let's see what you make of it. Don't worry about finding him, he'll come to you. Give him a nice smile and invite him in. Trust me, he's used to it. Don't say any more than you absolutely have to. He hates that!” He added with an evil chuckle, which Vesta joined in. Being included on this little game made her feel like she was a welcome part of the team.

They adjusted their seating arrangement accordingly, and sure enough they soon came upon Dr. Watson. The car rolled to a stop along the curb in front of him. He approached, familiar with what was likely to transpire. Vesta rolled down her window and put on her most charming smile. John looked at her, surprised.

“Hello.”

“Hi. Get in.”

John scowled, flicking his eyes upward. Then, he figured it was best to obey, and he got in with her. As they drove along, he tried to strike up conversation.

“So who are you?”

“Vesta. Mr. Holmes' personal assistant.”

“Vesta...is that your real name?”

She smirked at him, shaking her head. “No.”

“No, 'course not. What happened to his other one? Anthea, or whatever her name was?”

Vesta just shrugged, looking back to her stack of papers.

“Mycroft sure knows how to pick 'em, doesn't he?” 

“Mm-hmm,” she agreed noncommittally, noting that he sounded as though this has happened before. She remembered her boss telling her that he was used to it. A smirk crept up her lips as she sent an email from her phone.

“I do, in fact,” Mycroft jumped in, grinning at John's startled reaction. “I trust she'll fill the slot perfectly.” 

As they pulled up to 221B, Mycroft and John hopped out of the car. Vesta stared at the famous landmark with eager eyes. In all the excitement of her new job, she'd almost forgotten who her new boss's brother was! The door opened and Mycroft stood before her, holding the car door for her. John observed this with surprise. He'd never have expected the ominous man to display signs of chivalry.

“Coming?”

She stepped out and fell in at his side, suddenly feeling very exposed. She had come down this street once before in her previous life, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous detective, but now...somehow she felt confused. It was her first time out since being stripped of her old identity and thrust into a new one. If it hadn't been for her force of will, she would have been clinging to Mycroft's arm for guidance and comfort. Somehow, he felt like the only familiar thing in this new environment.

He glanced over his shoulder where his assistant dallied behind him, bringing her tight in beside him with a sweep of his arm. “Don't dawdle. And don't be afraid; at the very least, don't show it!” He hissed. Mycroft couldn't help be a trifle annoyed that his new assistant was obviously star-struck by the very idea of his idiot brother.

She stared up at the man, then up at the imposing edifice. She was really going in! Up into the flat where the great Sherlock Holmes held court. She gulped, nodding. He led the way in as if he owned the place. Vesta followed close behind with John bringing up the rear. Mycroft let himself in with his usual grim smile. Sherlock was obviously equally pleased to see his brother.

“Whatever it is you want me to do, Mycroft, you can forget it,” he announced, giving his violin a thoughtful scrape. He smiled over at John and gave him a little salute with his bow. He turned back to his brother, stony-faced again.

The elder Holmes subtly stepped on Vesta's foot to remind her not to stare, bringing Sherlock's attention to her in full. His gaze swept over his brother's new companion with a curious pout, then he inspected his brother. His eyes fell on the new decoration on his watch chain, taking in the tiny engraving around the edge. Immediately, his expression softened. His mouth fell open before he caught himself. Vesta recognized genuine sympathy in his face as he wordlessly shook his head. Mycroft gave his umbrella an uncomfortable twitch with a short nod as he roughly cleared his throat.

It was too subtle for the average person to see, but Sherlock didn't miss the underscoring of loss in his brother's posture.

“Mycroft, I'm sorry.”

He sighed, shaking it off. “All lives end,” he reminded him shortly. Sherlock nodded in quiet understanding. John sank down onto the sofa at this, looking from Vesta to Mycroft with a look of epiphany, and a touch of grief. He hadn't been close to the man's previous P.A. He probably exchanged a total of ten words with her, but he'd known her.

Vesta flicked her glance between the three men, wondering what they were all suddenly somber for. She got the sneaking suspicion that her predecessor had died, but she wondered how that could have been so silently communicated at a glance.

“So, got a new one already. What did you call this one?” Sherlock stood directly in front of her, piecing together her life from what he can see. _High shoulders, neck looks irritated, just got sprung from a desk job. Strain in her wrists, typing at an uncomfortable keyboard. Chair was three inches too high with no means to adjust it, leading to atrocious posture and a prematurely bad back._ He made brief eye-contact with his brother, who gave a short nod and flick of his hand. He was already on it. _Burns and scars down her arms, most of them well faded, cutter, no, cook for 5+ years, hasn't been in the business for a while, though. Mycroft got her slightly too-big clothes, must be trying to do something about that. He's right, too skinny. Standing almost at attention, trying not to “fan girl” on me, shows self control, good. Only child, introvert, doesn't get along well with others._ Sherlock stopped his analysis as it became strangled by the fact that her clothes weren't hers. Not much he could tell about someone when they were more or less in costume.

“Vesta,” she answered, sticking out her hand. For one fractured moment, she wished she could have been introduced with her real name. _The old me is dead_ , she reminded herself, _I'm Vesta now._

He took her hand with another sweeping look. “Is this what you came here for? To introduce me to John's newest habitual kidnapper?”

Mycroft and Vesta unconsciously twitched into identical smirks, cautiously giving each other a sly sidelong glance. Sherlock noted this with amusement. _Working for him for less than 24 hours and she's already in step. Perfect. Maybe there really isn't that much wrong with us. Just different. Why should we mind being different?_

“Well, since you've saved me the trouble of trying to convince you by your outright refusal, I suppose I have no further business here.”

John stopped him laying a hand on the man's arm. “Just out with it. You two aren't kids anymore, you can both grow up.” Vesta's eyes widened, shocked at Dr. Watson's familiarity with her imposing employer. _Calling him by his first name, now this?_

Mycroft smirked, “He's already provided sufficient help, though.”

“I see,” Sherlock answered, with a look of sudden clarity. “This is an environmental exercise, isn't it? You're breaking her in.”

Shifting his umbrella handle from one hand to the other, he gave it a little spin as he replied, “I'm testing her out, she performed quite well with what little she's had to do so far. She seems to have the right...disposition.”

Vesta wasn't sure what to think of the men talking over and around her. “Thank you, sir,” she muttered, glad she could at least get a word in.

“So...Vesta,” Sherlock drawled, as though testing out the sound of her name and finding it a good fit. “What do you think of my brother so far?”

Looking from one brother to the other, she silently asked permission to speak. “Oh, do share,” Mycroft returned. “Let's hear what kind of first impression I've made. Clearly, you haven't run screaming into the night.”

She looked at the floor and bit her lip before lightly answering, “I like him.”

Somehow, this pronouncement brought a genuine smile to John's face. He could hear his wife saying the same thing about Sherlock. _He must've found a fellow psychopath,_ he thought. _I bet she's not the shy violet she's letting on to be._ “Good. Glad you're getting on already.”

Mycroft looked surprised at her pronouncement as well. He expected to hear that she was impressed with the nature of the job, even in awe of him and his lofty position, or grateful for the expensive luxuries he'd already heaped upon her, but...she liked him??

“Really?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward in his seat. He wrinkled his nose, giving his brother a look of disgust. “Why?”

“He's nice. He's been really sweet to me. Working with him should be pretty cool. And he's funny.”

John and Sherlock gave Mycroft identical raised eyebrows at that description. Neither of them would have suspected any of those words would apply to the forbidding man. Sherlock supposed that the parody of generosity he may have displayed, at least as far as her wardrobe was concerned, could be confused with kindness, but where in the world did 'funny' come from? He'd seen murder scenes funnier than Mycroft!

The accused grimaced, checking the time. “Yes, well, this has been charming as usual. We'll see how well you like me after you've been with me longer.” Then, he sauntered out, his new assistant obediently at his heels.

“It was nice to meet you both!” She said, finally breaking character and letting her thrilled expression surface for just an instant. Then, she skipped on down the stairs to the car, flashing her employer a bright smile as he held the door for her again.

They were quiet as they drove off, both of them looked rather thoughtful. Finally, Mycroft spoke.

“I am not funny.”

“I didn't mean funny-weird, I meant...I like your sense of humour.”

This struck Mycroft as unusual. Most people he met assumed he didn't have a sense of humour at all, just because he clearly didn't take pleasure in the same things the everyday man did. He did have one, but it tended to be dark and dry, and slip under most peoples' radars. “Look, you've got the job, you can stop sucking up. I hired you as my assistant, not my sycophant. I already have plenty of those.”

“I...meant it. Really.” Vesta broke her gaze with the man and looked down at her lap. “Sorry.”

With a curl of his lip, Mycroft reached across the middle seat and nudged her chin up with a long, slim finger. When they were looking at each other face-to-face again, he declared, “You're a strange one.”

“With all due respect, sir, so are you.”

He had nothing to say to that, he just rolled his eyes and ignored her. They both gave a start when Vesta's phone beeped with a text alert. She raised her eyebrows at the screen. “Some M.P. wants to see you at 'the usual place.' Doesn't say what about.”

Mycroft glanced at the screen to see for himself. “Oh, I suppose, since we're in the neighborhood.” He gave the driver the address and settled back, looking bored. As soon as they pulled up to the building in question, he glided smoothly from the car to the pavement, commanding, “Come!” before slamming the car door.

Obediently, she slid out of the car and followed a few paces behind him, determined to put on the facade of cool calm. _Humans. They're just humans,_ she told herself, in perfect step with her employer. As he strode through the hall, swinging his umbrella with the occasional ornamental twirl, a number of well-dressed men and women greeted him.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” the undulating ripple of sycophants chanted at him as he passed. Scanning over their faces, he missed nothing. Some of them, he ignored as insignificant, others, he deigned to nod to in acknowledgment. Fewer still, he greeted in return. At the end of the hall, a man stood in his office, waving them in.

Most of what went on in there went right over Vesta's head, but she kept notes, typing into her Blackberry and sending it to her own and her boss's emails for the sake of documentation. She picked up on and remembered a few things from her morning reading, and found it to be at least mildly interesting. It all came down to power plays, determining the dominant party in any situation, and using that to one's advantage. Plots within plots.

After the impromptu meeting was over, Vesta was happy to get back in the car and go home. Home. She already thought of that grand house as “home” after only one day.

Mycroft grinned over at her, taking in her exhausted physical attitude. Still, she seemed in good enough spirits. “Like it?”

A wicked smile and laugh to match crept up on her. This was just a taste. There was something fun about being behind the man who pulled the strings. Watching him in action was like watching a performer on stage. “That was amazing.”

“Really?”

“Extraordinary! You _owned_ him, sir! A member of Parliament lapping up poisoned honey from your hand!”

“How did you know it was poisoned?”

Vesta smirked, “I know what it feels like to make a sale. I've seen a master work a room and that's what it looks like. Sir, you could sell an Eskimo ice!”

Mycroft sniggered at this, truly pleased with his assistant's description. _She's astute. This was a perfect way to break her in! So, she knows how the game is played, wonderful!_

Soon, they were home again. “So, now you've met my idiot brother and his pet. I assumed you'd want to get that out of your system. Shall we get down to business at long last?”

“Yes, sir. I'd like that.”

He gave the end of his umbrella a rub, then pointed it at her like a sword. “Today, as you already found out, your phone went live. You are who they all have to speak to to get to me, with a few exceptions. Don't let them daunt you. You are in command. They need to get through you to get to me.” He led her into their office and handed her a sheet of paper from his desk. “Rough run-down of who's who. Some of the names are similar, do keep them straight. Now would be a good time to come out of that shell of yours. I'd hoped that demure shrinking-violet you pretended to be was just an act. Glad to see you're more interesting than that at your core. Just remember, don't let them bully you. You are the first and last word. I have no time for swaggering idiots. If it comes to blows, they'll ring back and apologise. Oh, believe me, they will.” He leered at his assistant, pleased to see her eyes light up, obviously liking the sounds of her position. Still, she seemed so shy at first and sensitive, he was certain it would take time before her phone skills could be brought up to speed with what went on in her head. The life clearly appealed to her, but he knew better than to expect her to step right in without hesitation. It would take a few days for her to learn to speak up and stick to her guns. She was already getting versed in where his circles were, the list he gave her was clearly marked according to ally or opposition. He trusted it to be easy enough to remember after a while. 

With this being the final word on the subject, Mycroft sauntered out, twirling his umbrella as was his wont. Vesta suddenly imagined him as a drum major, leading a band in a parade. Seemed oddly appropriate for the man. “Make yourself at home,” he called without a backward glance, and shut himself up in his library.

She settled down in a comfortable loveseat in the sitting room, ready for her phone to start going off. On the table to her right was a tiered tray of chocolates in a wide variety. A note sat propped up against it. _V—Help yourself –MH_

Selecting one from its frilled paper cup, she muttered, “Don't mind if I do.” She hummed absently to herself as she nibbled at it, reading through the list and closing her eyes to quiz herself over it. After about twenty minutes of this, Vesta was starting to feel like she knew who most of these people were and what to expect from them.

Mycroft reclined comfortably in the library, glad to have some peace and quiet, reading to himself and feeling it soak into his brain. He heard an assortment of soft female pleasure-noises, and he inwardly congratulated himself on ordering the chocolates. It gave him a quiet stir of satisfaction to hear her enjoying them. An hour later, he'd migrated to a long leather couch, half asleep in his ease. He was torn out of his calm, though, by a raised voice. It started out politely nonchalant, escalating to sterner riposts and a more aggressive edge. He stood, laying his book aside, investigating...

“Oh, you just try it! Do you know who I am?! You watch yourself, pal, or I'll have your house burned down! Yes!” She hung up with a beep and stared up in the amazed face of her boss. To her surprise, he gave a short laugh.

Encouraged by his apparent lack of rage, she tossed her hair casually, crossing her legs and reached for another truffle. “He was being recalcitrant.”

“Yes, I imagine he was. Let's see, who exactly did you break your sabre-rattling teeth upon? Let me guess.” He ran his finger down his list of names and stopped on a particularly interesting fellow. Vesta nodded. “Good, very good. Never got that personal in my conversations with him. I like it. Carry on.”

“I'm not in trouble?”

“For doing what I expected? Of course not. Frankly, I'm relieved you have such a backbone,” Mycroft replied. “I worried you'd be intimidated by any of these people.” He chuckled darkly, “You'll burn his house down, I'll have to remember that one.”

“I used to get in trouble at my old jobs for talking that way. Telling people I'd set them on fire became my usual conversation-stopper. I even backed it up with a blowtorch I had from doing crème brulees. Got hauled in the office a few times because people complained.”

Mycroft folded his arms and looked confounded by this, “Can't have been anywhere very interesting.” He fluttered a hand to the ceiling, muttering disgust at such a thing and strolled off. _I like her!_

 

After being effectively broken in, Vesta found that the days flew by in her first few weeks of her new job. She was feeling settled in and she seemed to have found her feet. She was relying less and less on the cheat sheets that Mycroft had printed out for her, and she was making contacts and fielding information with comfortable ease. It was a remarkably good fit.

After the first few days, she nearly forgot about the diet her boss had put her on. She had enough to eat at each meal for the first time in ages, and under the circumstances, it was easy for her to overindulge on her own without her boss urging her too much. He would usually pointedly encourage her to have just a bit more, but she wasn't being force-fed by any stretch. In the first week, she had actually dreamed of him doing such a thing, and she didn't want to admit how much the idea thrilled her. In the following weeks, Mycroft chose to opt for subtlety. Still, subtle or not, the change in her was becoming more apparent. The first day she got dressed and her clothes didn't seem so big made her examine herself in the full-length mirror. Looking over her shoulder, she slid her hands down her hips, marking the soft swell of them. Vesta stared, actually feeling pleased with her figure for the first time in her life. She'd always been too scrawny, she hated it. This was good, this was healthy. As she examined herself, she got the wild notion to draw her boss's attention to it. She thought she heard him passing by...

“Sir? Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft came striding down the hall and stood in her doorway. “Yes, what is it?”

“Just look at me. Look what you've done.”

Mycroft stared...

It hadn't escaped her boss's notice that his efforts were starting to be successful. The supply of chocolates he'd laid in had lasted longer than he suspected, but it wouldn't do for her to simply gorge on sweets. That wouldn't be healthy. Still, he noticed she would eat three or four of them every day, especially while she was working. He had already begun to see a change in her, and it pleased him greatly. Mycroft knew it wouldn't take long to reach the target. Between actually having decent, regular meals, and the extra encouragement and treats here and there, she was filling out nicely. Now she stood before him in a light blouse and skirt, perfectly shaped to highlight her new figure. Breaking out of his trance, he tsked and fluttered off, like he couldn't believe she'd called him over to examine her body. Didn't she know he had more important things on his mind? Silly girl!

As they detected from the first day, the two of them were quick to develop a good, predictable working relationship. As the young woman found her feet, Mycroft felt more and more that he could trust her to handle things. She was his first line of defense, and she wore it well. There were times when he would steam and bluster, kicking up a storm in his wake, and Vesta would simply wait by the sidelines for him to be finished. He was normally even-tempered, so his little tantrums never lasted long. Oftentimes, they were linked to his brother. He described their relationship as “difficult.” That certainly seemed the case from what she'd seen. Still, there was something almost endearing about seeing the normally controlled man lose his cool. Mycroft, too, noticed how his assistant coped with such episodes of his, bearing them with calm, unaffected grace. Other times, she would add fuel to the fire, adding her own tirade to his. Comically enough, they were never fighting with each other, but together they railed against some invisible, absent party or parties (sometimes mere forces of nature) with whom they were mutually frustrated. After having been unreachable loners for their whole lives, both Vesta and Mycroft found a great measure of relief to commiserate—loudly—with someone else. It always left them feeling much more relaxed, even happy, without really knowing why. Yes, these two were definitely a good fit for each other.


	3. Hurting, Healing

On her next designated day off, Vesta intended to sleep late, but out of sheer habit her eyes popped open at exactly 6:15am. Two months of early rising had completely eliminated her ability to have a lie-in. She stretched, scowling bitterly at her alarm clock which hadn't even been turned on. When she came down for breakfast, dressed in yoga pants and comfortable t-shirt, Mycroft looked up, surprised. He dragged his eyes across the text on it, squinting as he read: “We're All Mad Here.” He shook his head, brushing her choice of casual attire aside.

“It's your day off, Vesta, you needn't bother with the world this early.”

She smiled at him, then at the servant who brought her coffee, and reached for the toast rack and jam. “I know, I just couldn't stay in bed. It's a beautiful day. Shame to waste it, really.” She crunched thoughtfully and took a sip of coffee.

“Well, whatever you have planned today, I shan't be a part of it,” Mycroft muttered, flicking through his paper. “Call or text if you need me for anything,” And with that, he strutted out the door, swinging his umbrella. Vesta finished her toast and coffee, not realizing that she was still smiling. She let out a content sigh and fell back in her seat. 

She didn't really feel like going back to visit the cooks, she would really just like some alone time. After a bit of wandering, Vesta ended up in the sitting room, where she switched on the TV and settled back on the couch to flip through the channels. She scowled with each click, muttering about there being nothing on. She caught a glimpse of Sherlock at the tail end of a news program, but that was about it. Shutting it off again, she dragged herself back up to her room where she switched on her tablet to read with some music on. Hours dragged out, and boredom soon crept in.

Vesta laid her tablet aside and turned off the music, rubbing her fingers against her temples. She felt strange: lazy and restless at the same time. She wasn't sure what to do with herself. She understood that her boss would be in and out all day, and had left her no instructions. Still, she wanted to look proactive, useful. Somehow, she decided to do a load of his laundry. She peeked inside Mycroft's bedroom, skimming over it curiously, when she saw a heap of clothes under his bed. She was just gathering them up to throw in the hamper, when she heard a creak. Vesta felt the colour drain from her face as she looked up and beheld Mycroft in the doorway, staring at her with fierce, wild eyes.

“What are you doing in here?! What did I tell you?! Out! Out! Get out! Don't—you—touch—those!” His voice rose to a wild shriek. He dove at her, clawing the garments from her grasp. It was only then that she realized they were covered in dried--

“Ahh! Blood!” She shrieked, terrified, jumping away and scurrying for the door. Mycroft collapsed on the floor, cradling the crumpled, bloodied suit to his chest with a low, crooning noise of despair. She crept back a minute later, peeked in, and saw him still curled up like that, clutching his soiled clothes to his heart, speaking to no one, in a voice too low to be understood. Then he took out his watch, caressing it with a fresh unintelligible groan. It grew into a bestial growl. He raised it in his hand as if to throw it away, out the open window, but something made him pause. As if he heard a voice, telling him to stop.

As much of a fright as Mycroft had given her, Vesta still wished she could do something to help him. She guessed there was some connection between his blood-covered suit and his watch. No...the jewel on his watch! She slunk back to her room and turned on her tablet. An internet search gave her all she needed to know. There were companies now that could take human ashes and turn them into gemstones for bereaved loved ones to wear. Somehow, she realized who it must be. She clapped a hand to her mouth and shut her eyes, ashamed of having disturbed such relics, treated his things with such awful disrespect. She'd only wanted him to like her, and she just destroyed any chance of him even tolerating her.

Vesta kept out of sight for the rest of the day, only coming forward at mealtimes, which were eerily silent. His eyes warned her against speaking of what had transpired in his room, and she was more than willing to follow that command. Finally, at about ten o'clock, Vesta poked her head into the office to get on her computer when she saw a familiar silhouette. Mycroft was slouched down over his desk, an empty whiskey tumbler in front of him and a half-empty decanter next to it. She crept in, against her better judgment. He was staring at something in his hand, tracing it and sighing deeply. She was at his side before he even realized he wasn't alone. He started with a gasp and a guilty twitch. His P.A. looked into his hand at the jewel sparkling in the starlight with a serene smile. 

“She's beautiful.”

Mycroft spluttered, “She...she...wanted to stay with me. God only knows why.”

“She loved you.”

“She was always...so stupid,” he slurred, refilling his glass with a shaking hand. Vesta steadied it with her own, only letting him pour out a little. She had a feeling he'd already had quite enough.

“Did you love her back?” Vesta asked quietly, wishing she would be allowed to take this poor, broken man into her arms.

“No, but I liked her,” he corrected stubbornly. “Liked her! I...I never liked anybody. She was...my friend. She knew that...that I can't...I wasn't able to. Anthea...she was so sweet. So sweet and stupid...and sharp as a tack. As far as people go, anyway. I couldn't do that to her. Old enough to be her father. And I couldn't...be what she deserved, what she needed. And then I killed her. My fault, all my fault. Who told her to be so damn heroic?! She was my assistant, not my bodyguard! She never swore to protect me with her own life!”

The room vanished before his eyes and he was on a darkened London street. He heard a scream, _Mycroft, get down!_ He was shoved to the ground and he heard a gunshot, a groan. Something heavy thudded across his lap. There she lay, blinking and gulping, staring at him with wide, confused eyes. Seconds drew out and the world stood still.

“Mycroft, hold me. So cold.” She'd never used his first name before. In the time they'd known each other, she'd only ever called him “Mr. Holmes,” “sir,” or if they were feeling more playfully familiar, “boss.” He knew then that in her heart, he was more than just that. 

He held Anthea in his arms as she bled to death, frozen to the spot. With her last bit of strength, she clutched at him, whispering, “Want...to stay with you. Please keep me...keep me with you...always?”

“Always.”

Mycroft came back to himself, surprised to find tears on his cheeks and his whiskey untouched. He gazed down at the jewel on his watch. “Always.” He shook himself to clear away the awful memory. He looked to his right and saw Vesta still standing there, holding a handkerchief out to him. He took it and wiped his eyes, down his face, wringing it in his hands. “Not a word,” he ordered her in his usual cold manner.

“Of course not.” She stroked his back soothingly. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes, I imagine so. Thank you. Now leave me. I'll...see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

“Good night, Vesta.”

 

Late that night, Mycroft lay awake, tormented by memories, by guilt, by the grief he only just acknowledged. He always considered himself to be utterly alone, and that, he loudly claimed, was how he liked it. He didn't _need anybody_. He certainly didn't _like_ anybody...miss anybody. His late night shamble down memory lane threw light on how much he'd been lying to himself. Mycroft preferred to pretend he didn't have a heart, just so he could pretend it had never been broken. He'd never cared for anyone, so he'd never been hurt. The self-deception was thick. Remembering the woman who chose to be his friend dying in his arms was too much. He all but blocked it out, denied she had ever meant anything to him. She was only his secretary, his employee, nothing more. Certainly not his friend, confidant, trusted lieutenant. _All lives end, all hearts are broken._ Mycroft Holmes was used to his place in this world. He was not an appealing man, never charming or attractive, physically or in any other sense. He never cared to be. He preferred to live his life alone in his ivory tower, removed and untouched. How, then, had that foolish girl taken to him so well? Her loyalty had nothing to do with her employment to him. What exactly had made her see him as something lovable? He hadn't returned her feelings there, but he couldn't help but be affected by them. For a moment, as he thought of her, Mycroft almost envied the devoutly religious. At least they took comfort in their belief of life after death, that somehow, those who had gone before them were somehow in “a better place.” He wished he had that much to fall back on. He smiled grimly, imagining Anthea wandering around one of his abandoned power plants or parking garages in spirit form. Waiting for him. _What I wouldn't give for some comfort right now_ , Mycroft thought.

He heard a timid knock on his bedroom door.

“Come in,” he muttered, wondering why he was admitting her to his chambers. They'd been deemed out of bounds without his express invitation, and for very good reason.

The door opened and Vesta entered with a small covered platter. She was wearing a dark green silk nightgown with broad lace shoulders. She set the tray on his nightstand with an small smile. The look on her face was eerily familiar, and Mycroft cringed away from it. The number of times he'd seen it on Anthea...here was another foolish woman who let herself become attached to him. To everyone else who knew him, he was someone to avoid or at least fear. He was a cold, unpleasant, egocentric asshole whose only right to live lay in his remarkable brain power. He lifted the silver cover and stared. There before him was a thick slice of chocolate cake, dripping with caramel, whipped cream, and vanilla bean ice cream. A fork and spoon lay on a folded linen napkin. 

“This is revenge, isn't it?” He asked with a touch of humour in his voice, noticing that her forearms were streaked with chocolate and her front was dusted with flour. Surely, she didn't just make this! “This is you getting back at me for fattening you up.”

Vesta drew her hands down her sleek, satisfied, slightly fuller figure, “I have to say, I love what you've done. This isn't revenge, Mr. Holmes. This is...therapy. You know, low blood sugar leads to fatigue and an overall drop in productivity as well as memory retention. Can't have you running the country on fumes.” She smiled warmly at him.

Mycroft stared at her, debating. He knew he should have thrown it back in her face—literally—and sent her crying out the door. That was what he should have done. He pictured Anthea standing before him, arms folded over her chest. For a subordinate, she had often taken an upper hand, at least when it came to how he took care of himself. _Now I've got another one who thinks I need looking-after. I don't pay my assistants to care! Nobody cares about me!_ Mycroft groused to himself, trying to convince himself that he wasn't at all pleased. He took the tray into his lap and picked up the fork. He took the first bite and his eyes rolled back with a low moan. _Forbidden fruit. Oh, my old friend..._ “Oh, my...” He sighed, blushing indecently as he began to wolf down the pile of sugary goodness. It was punctuated with low, gasping sounds of sexual pleasure. Then he remembered...Vesta's first night there, her reaction to steak Oscar style for the first time. Mycroft then understood why she'd insisted he try it then. Such things are better when shared. He held the spoon out with an involuntary smile crawling up his face, as though he was unaccustomed to genuine happiness.

“You _have_ to try this! We weren't allowed sweets when I was growing up. Mummy knew I had a low metabolism. Didn't want her boy getting fat. I had trouble when I was first off on my own, resisting temptation. I...overindulged, for many years. Been a battle ever since. So help me, help me finish this. It won't look nearly as good on me as it will on you.”

Obediently, Vesta knelt down beside him and took a spoonful of melting ice cream, gooey caramel, and sopping chocolate cake. She, too, gave a soft, appreciative grunt of pleasure. It soon became a mix of pleasure and surprise, as her boss tweaked the spoon out of her hand and proceeded to alternatively spoon-feed her as well as himself. This act was enough to get her a bit wound up, fulfilling one of her most forbidden fantasies. Between the two of them, it soon disappeared, leaving them both delightfully sated.

Mycroft practically licked the plate clean and set it aside, and pulled her up onto the bed. “Where did you get that? Who made it? I'll have them knighted!”

Vesta giggled, “I did.” She smirked at her boss's baffled face. “I made it for you. Didn't take long, just since you dismissed me from your office.”

“That was three hours ago. I thought you called one of those novelty twenty-four hour bakeries that delivers or woke up the kitchen staff! Remind me to give you a pay rise.”

This last remark, the reminder of the real nature of their relationship, cooled down the playful atmosphere in the space of five seconds. They drew away from each other, feeling awkwardly ashamed of their behavior.

Vesta stammered nervously, “Sir, I am so sorry! That was... inappropriate of me.”

Similarly, Mycroft cleared his throat, setting the tray aside and rubbing his hands over his face. With a smirk, Vesta wiped off his sticky mouth with the napkin. He returned the favor, wiping off her arms as well. The mad idea occurred to him to lick them clean. They both looked so confused. They stared each other down, hungrily, so close to kissing. All it would have taken was just a touch more courage than either of them had. “Yes, that's all right. I, um...thank you. I'm warning you, Vesta, get any silly ideas out of your head this minute. You do not _care_ for me, understand? I'm the most unlovable bastard you've ever had the ill fortune to have met. And don't make me care for you. No good comes from such foolishness. Caring is _not_ an advantage! Understand?”

“Oui, chef,” she muttered, then flinched, catching herself. Mycroft held up a hand, stopping her from correcting herself. 

“Thank you. Good night.”

She nodded, it was almost a bow, and she took the tray and left without another word.

 

Early the next morning, Mycroft went downstairs to the dining room. There sat Vesta in her usual seat, a clipboard and large cup of coffee in front of her.

“Ahem, you have a 9:00 conference call with the Prime Minister. The others all rescheduled to later on in the week. Apparently there was a hurricane or something.”

“Ah. Rain delay. Damn,” he agreed. It appealed to him that she had fallen into step with his world so well that she was already...jaded wasn't the word for it, but accustomed, rather. After all, she had come into his life with the sound understanding that no matter what “it” was, these things happen. He took his seat and pulled the coffee tray towards him, not bothering to wait for his servants to do this for him. He gazed intently at her, taking in the little details: _still a bit red in the face, only got...three hours of sleep, overcompensating with a large dose of caffeine. Obvious. Arms, legs, shoulders, all pulled in tight to the body, doesn't want to talk about it. All the better for me. Clothes...exactly what she wore on her first day, don't believe in coincidences, must have been either deliberate or a subconscious selection. A cross between wanting to look professional and... his eyes fell on the pink scarf around her neck... to look pretty for me?_ He couldn't help but notice that she filled it out much more nicely than the first time she wore it. Her face, too, looked healthier. Her eyes and cheeks had lost that sharp, hollow look. Mycroft regretted having to end her “diet”, despite its success. He certainly couldn't have her overdo it. Still, he loved watching her eat. It was almost indecently enthralling.

“Here,” Mycroft grunted, tossing her her own handkerchief back. “Don't worry, I washed it. All right, let's have it out. We didn't do anything wrong. I fed you cake. That's all. It's not enough to disrupt our working relationship.”

“It was the sexiest thing I can even imagine,” Vesta murmured, clutching her handkerchief and daintily sipping her coffee. For a minute there last night, she'd pretended he loved her, wanted her. But no, she wouldn't ask such things of him, not while he was still grieving, the poor man.

Mycroft squinted at her; that didn't sound right at all. He'd found himself thinking the same thing before he came down. They'd even had a climax together. “Have you never...?”

“No,” she answered shortly.

“Me, neither.” They drank their coffee in silence for a handful of seconds before he added, “It was...very nice, I thought.” Slowly, they both smiled at each other. “Any of that cake left?”

“Plenty.”

They exchange dark chuckles and go back to their respective reading materials, glad to have gotten that business out of the way.

That evening, Vesta handed Mycroft a stack of notes, a highly detailed itinerary, and a who's who list for him to look over. “Curtain is tomorrow at 8pm. Knock 'em dead,” she smiled. She felt warm and soft to her very core, not to mention unreasonably proud of the man. She flicked out her fan-folded napkin and grinned at him across the table, unconsciously mimicking the way he held his hands under his chin. Mycroft noticed with a start of recognition. It was simply an outward sign that she was becoming more like him. For a megalomaniac, there was something undeniably attractive about that.

“You're coming with me, I get a plus-one.” _And I wouldn't go into this arena alone. The business portion, fine, but I cannot and will not make small talk with_ people!! _Thank goodness for my fellow misanthrope. So glad she's coming with me._

Vesta froze, feeling cold dread seize her. “Really?”

“I'll expect you to record the meeting to the best of your ability. I cannot stress what an important occasion this is. Whoever controls the room...” he sighed, trailing off. “Let's talk about something else, before we both lose our appetites.”

“Yes, good,” she gasped, looking quite ashen. “Just remember, if you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding.”

It was ridiculous; stupid, really. All she did was repeat the same lame joke he'd made her first night there. Why had it gone straight to his heart? Since when did he even have a heart? He thought of them spoon-feeding each other the decadent cake she'd made last night. The image in his head thrilled him. Then, utterly spoiling his imaginings, he could hear his brother, asking if he'd “found a goldfish.” Mycroft cringed. Yes, he was much smarter than she was. So much so it was almost like being a different species at times. And yet...Vesta could recognize that, she understood, and she didn't mind the difference. For one second, he thought wildly of lobotomising himself, to bring himself down to her level, before shaking off such notions. What insanity had gripped him now?! He licked his lips, drumming his fingers nervously, because if he stopped, he would do something stupid. Reach across the table for her, of all the ridiculous--

“It's going to be fine, Chief,” she told him. He glanced up at her sharply and took in her smile. She'd found a way to break her programming without abandoning its impulses altogether. He smiled back, hoping to set her at ease. Mycroft Holmes was no stranger to state affairs like what they were facing tomorrow. It didn't dull him into a false sense of security by any stretch, he was well aware what was at stake each time the most powerful men in any room met up together.

“You learned basic etiquette in school, I trust? Table manners?”

Vesta had just broken the tuille over her crab salad. She nodded. “Yes, sir. My chef made it a requirement.”

“Good. Good,” he drawled absently, poking at his appetizer disinterestedly.

“Sir? What should I do? As your plus-one?”

Mycroft gave her a wan smile. “Remember what your chef taught you.” He brought a hand to the side of his head and looked down into his lap. He looked as though he had a headache.

“Better go easy on the wine, Chief,” his assistant suggested. “No good for a headache.”

“I wish I could pass out.”

She smirked, propping her chin lightly in her hands as she peered over at him. “Eat something. Or I'll tell Roger and Jamie to finish the cake themselves.”

_Who? Oh, yes, the cooks._ Mycroft set his jaw, looking tense, wondering when exactly this woman became so free with him. Wondering why he actually liked it! Someone who spoke to him like a person and not as an underling.

Vesta tensed up a bit again when she saw her boss's thumb swipe over his watch chain. She'd just reminded him of her. She wondered if her predecessor took such a tone with him. He didn't seem to mind. As she cleaned her appetizer plate, Mycroft sullenly followed her example. Maybe it was lack of nourishment in conjunction with nerves that made him feel ill. He even followed her suggestion and drained his water glass instead of the accompanying wine. This made Vesta smile.

“I have it all arranged,” she assured him, pointing at the papers. “Your presentation is all there, seating arrangements, timetable, everything. Your mise en place is set up for you.”

“Good, thank you.” He opened it up and paged through it, eyebrows rising significantly. “ _Very_ good. Who told you to do all this?”

“Well, I couldn't have you walk into a mess.” She'd been behind the arrangements, fielding emails, texts, and phone calls for the last week leading up to it. If she hadn't set it down in an organised fashion for her superior, it would have felt like leaving a station unstocked and filthy, without even any clean towels for the next shift.

Mycroft stared at the laid-out plan of attack. It was practically timed to the minute. It was one thing for her to be able to follow orders and carry out his commands in a competent fashion. This...was above the call of duty. It touched the personification of the British government to his core. “Vesta...you're...indispensable.” It was something Anthea would have done. It confirmed that he'd chosen wisely when he hired a fellow misanthrope. In the time since she took up her position here, she had never once voiced desire for human company apart from himself. She had no need for other people, he was all she needed. When he examined it under this light, he found that she was all he needed. Mycroft leaned back in his chair, inwardly scoffing at his brother's suggestion that he was lonely. Without the distraction of socialisation, both of them were able to pour their entire energy into their work. It certainly suited him, and seemed to agree with his assistant as well. What he completely ignored was the fact that the balance between their strengths and weaknesses complimented each other perfectly. Not only that, but they genuinely enjoyed each other.

“Just trying to make your burden lighter. It's heavy enough, that much is obvious, and I know I can't do much to help.”

“Every little bit helps,” he assured her, looking her in the face again. He was taken aback when he saw the soft gleam of love in her eyes. Why someone like her would take a fancy to him was nearly beyond his comprehension. Yes, he was impressive and powerful. The country ran on his command. The very traffic lights turned green for him. That would be enough to attract someone...

Someone's ambitions, someone's need for personal or political gain, but...did those things inspire love? The Holmes brothers were alike in their lack of comprehension of the phenomenon. What had driven Anthea to sacrifice herself for him? What did she gain from that exchange? Fulfilling her lifelong dream of becoming jewelry? Hardly. Even Mycroft knew there was something significant behind it, but he couldn't work out the why. And what made this one go through all the extra work she subjected herself to? He saw that Vesta as of late had quite a full dance card and had taken to putting in long nights of string-pulling and back-scratching. She was developing quite the talent for it. An unexpectedly good fit, career-wise. He felt especially glad that he invited her along. She was well on the way to truly being his right hand.

Mycroft sighed and found his appetite had returned. “I'm not worried anymore,” he sighed contently as their soup was served.

The rest of the meal was passed in a comfortable silence. When dessert came, it was a tall chocolate parfait made with chunks of cake from yesterday. Mycroft began to push his away, muttering about his waistline, when Vesta raised a stern finger and gave him a commanding look. “Eat.”

“I knew it, this is revenge.” Still, he dug in without further prodding.

“Wrong. It's returning the favor. You could afford to go up a stone and still look fine. Better, in my opinion.”

Mycroft froze with his spoon in his mouth, staring across the table incredulously. His ears rang with his cocky younger brother's taunts about his weight, his constant dieting. “Better?”

“Mm-hmm. You forget that I'm a feeder, too.” She smiled brightly, not the least bit shy anymore. “I'd like to see you looking healthy.”

If either of them had had any experience in romance, this would have been when one or both would have sprung. As it was, they just sat there, blushing and fidgeting, trying to both understand and ignore their bodily needs. They stared across the table as they finish their desserts, equally confused at the strange stirrings within themselves.

“Well, good night, sir. Get a good sleep. Hey, you'll own the room,” Vesta assured him.

As baselessly optimistic of a pronouncement as it was, Mycroft couldn't help but feel supported. He watched her go upstairs to bed before slinking back up to his room as well. Once he was dressed for bed, he lay down, stroking the purple jewel thoughtfully.

“I think you'd like her. She reminds me of you. So, no need to worry, I'm well taken care of. You were the closest thing to a friend as I've had. More of one than I ever thought possible. Wish me luck tomorrow.”

He turned off the light and soon was asleep. He found himself in one of his secret meeting places. It was dark; the blackness was only filtered out in small pockets by buzzing fluorescent lights. He knew he was meeting someone here, he felt certain of that. Who, though?

High-heeled footsteps echoed throughout the floor. Mycroft looked around to locate the source of it. A woman stepped out from the shadows and he drew a slow breath.

“Hi, boss,” Anthea chirped, looking pleased to see him. He was rooted to the spot as she approached, looking up at him fondly with a smile.

“I'm dreaming,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. She took him by the wrist and made him look at her.

“Yes, you are. Dream with me, darling.”

“I...wish you hadn't died like that, Anthea. It really threw a wrench in everything,” he blustered, trying to sound unaffected.

Even in his dreams, she wasn't fooled for a second. “I wouldn't say that. You've been getting along fine. It's okay to say you miss me, though. I miss you.”

“I miss you,” he admitted softly.

“Now, Vesta...I like her. And she adores you.”

Mycroft tried to wave that aside, “She's just enamored. I pulled her out of the gutter, for pity's sake.”

“She was making out all right before you. You only gave her everything after you took everything she had away from her. No reason for gratitude there, if you ask me, let alone hero-worship. No. You could've been the stock boy at her old office and she would've fallen for you.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft snorted, both at imagining himself in such circumstances, and the notion that Vesta would love him if he was ordinary. Not rich, not highly intelligent, just...ordinary. He thought of his parents, then. His exceptional mother with his very run-of-the-mill, self-proclaimed moron of a father. But they loved each other in spite of that. He brushed the notion away, that was just a fluke. After fifty-two years, they can't still be happy. It made him wonder how they even were able to understand each other. And yet, they did. 

Anthea giggled, as though she guessed his thoughts, circling him. “You were my best friend, Mycroft. I liked you because we were so alike, and I loved you because we were so different. It's the same with your Vesta. You even have the same absurd and frankly alarming way of expressing interest!”

“Me?! _I'm_ not interested in--” he broke off, quailing under his former secretary's gaze.

“I would've died laughing if I wasn't already dead! The two of you, just after you met, both jumped to the conclusion that you wanted to feed each other up. And neither of you resisted in the slightest. Food is sex to you both, it's perfect. It's why you were so bloody awkward after feeding each other cake! Even _I'm_ not _that_ English! It was precious. So, tell her, Mycroft. Or at least let her say it to you. You can't lie to me, boss. I know you too well. You love her and you're rubbish at it. Asking her to be your date tomorrow was a nice touch. My guess is she's in her room now, trying not to start singing 'I Could Have Danced All Night.'”

“She's not my date, she's going to be there as my P.A.” Still, he fidgeted guiltily, wishing his old friend's ghost wasn't quite so observant.

“Whatever you say,” she smirked, amused at the supreme stupidity of her brilliant employer. “I never got to say it, but I love you. Take care, all right? Let her take care of you. Thanks for keeping me close.”

She faded away, and the room with her.

The scene changed, all around him was an eyewateringly bright white room filled with cubicles. He was being led down to the end, carting large cardboard boxes in front of him. He was wearing a short-sleeved white button down shirt, a plain red tie and a pair of khakis. Unofficial uniform of the working class. They stopped at the back desk where he saw...someone familiar...

“Jen, this is Mike, the new stockroom guy. Show him where the boxes go,” a faceless person commanded before vanishing.

Jen got up an gave him an appraising sort of smile. “So, are you a total psychopath for a change, or did they hire a sane guy? Either way, I am glad to see you.” She tossed her hair back, showing a pink silk scarf around her neck. He couldn't remember why he felt like he knew her. Suddenly, he decided he didn't care.

“I don't think anybody's sane around here,” he groused grumpily.

“You're right there,” she agreed happily. “Okay. Our last stockroom guy never had any sort of a system, so I skinned him alive. We can't have a repeat occurrence of that, can we?” She took him back to where supplies were most wanted and showed him where things ought to go. It was weird for him to be ordered around by someone half his age.

As they wrapped up, Jen tried to get him to open up a bit more. “So, what kind of stuff are you into?”

“Listen, um, thank you for the 'grand tour', but I'm really not a people person. Don't talk to me unless you have to, don't try to make friends with me, let's just do our jobs and be done with it. Hmm?”

Jen made a face. “Okay, then. Fine, have it your way, Mr. Grumpy.”

The scene misted away and reformed into a similar setting. Same place, different day. He was stalking back to where Jen worked with a feeling of dread. She looked up from her computer, muttering, “Morning, Mike.” He scowled in return. As he passed her again on the way back, he saw her pull out a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies and set it on the end of her desk. Debating the matter rather longer than he should have, he took one in the end and prowled away. Somehow, he knew Jen was smiling about that.

He felt time pass, unsure how much. Another day, and he was greeted by Jen's enraged shrieks and snarls as she stormed at her desk. “Arrg, kill, kill, kill!!! I swear to god, the next person to waltz up here with a stupid question, I'm going to set them on fire!” She was marvelous in her rage: eyes flashing, hair tossed about, cheeks flushed...

Mike strode up, gave her a beautifully malevolent grin, and handed her a book of matches. “There's something wrong with you. I like it,” he chuckled. Finally recognizing her as a kindred spirit, he perched on the corner of her desk and brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

Jen beamed at him, “You're a nutcase, too! I knew it! It's so nice to finally have someone normal around here for a change. The rest of these guys--”

“Humans,” he uttered in disgust.

“Humans,” she nodded. “I like you, Mike.”

He found himself feeling wonderfully unchained by societal pressures, and he bravely leaned forward, about to kiss her--

Mycroft woke up with a start, that strange vision vanishing instantly as he was torn from the vapourous grips of Morpheus. Whatever else he had dreamed of that night, he couldn't clearly recall, but he remembered his chat with Anthea vividly. After catching his breath, he rolled over and fell back asleep.


	4. Lights, Camera, Action!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is totally not a date ;)

After breakfast the next day, Mycroft checked the time and consulted the schedule set for this evening. He had time to kill, and he needed to get out of the house. Someplace calm.

“I'm going to my club,” he announced as he rose. “I'll be home well in time, and I expect you to be dressed and ready when I return.”

“Yes, sir. Have a good time. Hope you can relax.” She handed him his umbrella and saw him out the door.

The drive to the Diogenes Club was the perfect prelude to what awaited him there: peace and quiet. He turned his phone to vibrate, made one last glance to see if he had any messages, and let out a deep breath.

The chauffeur pulled up in front of the building and opened the door for him. Mycroft sent him away with a wave of his hand. He stepped through the sleek glass doors and felt himself relax by the very scent of the place. The doorman allowed him through into a vast sitting room for London's least sociable men. No one spoke, no one made a sound except the turning of pages and shifting of seats. It had always been Mycroft's sanctuary. He settled into a deep leather chair, sinking back pleasurably as he read the paper. With just a glance up at a staff member, a brandy was brought out to the little table by his chair. _Ah, Heaven!_ He thought. _Just what I need before the big night._ He took a sip, feeling calmed already. It seemed a pity to have to leave. He'd been known to stay there all day at times. Some members even slept there. He'd never gone to that extreme, but his home life was peaceful enough. Even his new assistant didn't cause too much distraction or disturbance.

_Then why not just stay at home?_ Part of him asked himself.

_I wanted to get out of the house._

_To do what you could have just done at home? You could be in your own library right now._

_I'm giving Vesta a moment of privacy, then. She needs to know what to do while I'm away._

_Like digging around under your bed and finding your blood-soaked clothes? Why did you save those, anyway?_

He didn't have an answer to that, so he took another sip of brandy and kindly asked himself to shut up. Too late, though, he was suddenly reminded of what came after her grisly discovery. He'd made the ultimate mistake, he'd reached out to her. To Vesta, of all people! For comfort, for company. _Stupid girl...thinking she could make friends with me via midnight snack. Just trying to get in my good books. I should've fired her._ He snapped his paper back too loudly, making several patrons start and glare at him warningly. He folded the paper back up; there wasn't anything worth reading anyway. He fiddled with the handle of his umbrella, recalling the look on Vesta's face when she'd handed it to him. Why did that seem so wrong? Something was indescribably wrong, though. What was it?

Then it hit him: he never left the house without his umbrella. He had it at his side or in his hand nearly all the time. He had made it to the front door without it! Maybe old age really was creeping up on him. But she remembered. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, 0% chance of rain, yet she was familiar enough with his peculiarity. She'd never even asked why. Curious. There had been something almost endearing in the way she handed it to him this morning, hoping he could relax. How did she even know how nervous he was about this evening? He'd flat-out told her that he wasn't worried.

_Yes, thanks in part to her preparations. And her vote of confidence._

Mycroft waved that thought off like a cloud of gnats, uttering a short grunt of annoyance, getting more glares from the surrounding club members. One brave soul even shushed him. He was finding it increasingly difficult to sit still, to maintain the rule of silence. He downed the rest of his brandy and was brought another. Still, he felt sick.

_Relax. Just relax. Rest up for the evening, it will be rigourous enough. Enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet where the state of the free world isn't being held in the balance. Oh, good, now I can relax._ He thought to himself sarcastically. Still, he tilted his head back, reclining comfortably with closed eyes, trying to calm his mind. No easy task, but worth the effort. So many people, goldfish, advised him in the past to not think. As if that was a viable and desirable solution! They might as well have told him not to breathe, either, or to stop the beating of his own heart. How he detested people. “Humans!” as his assistant had described them with perfect horror. It had actually made him wonder what her faculties were like. While nowhere near himself, intellectually, she did strike him as being above the layman, at least where she had home field advantage: mass organisation, cooking, coffee-cupping. Mycroft wondered how many others could have identified his favorite mix of Kenya and Brazil? He might ask her more about that sometime, really pick her brain, see what she knows about anything. Besides, hearing about it from an experienced source would be more stimulating than just reading about it.

After another hour like this, bordering on being too noisy, Mycroft finally gave up and alerted his driver that he was ready to go home. He wondered with a pang of panic if Vesta had ever been to a formal event like this. _Probably not as a guest. More likely, she would have been staff._ He thought to himself. _Well, she knows the rules of etiquette, she has good enough table manners at home. She could probably even plan a perfect menu for such an event._ A few times she'd gone back into the kitchen to “play menu” with the chef and the sous-chef. They'd crafted some unique meals together. She said it was her idea of fun, how she relaxed, that she took pleasure in pleasing others...him. He could always tell when it was something she'd had a hand in by that look she'd give him. Like she was waiting for his reaction, his approval. He would manage a few bites of everything on those nights, and he made a point to finish at least two courses entirely. Between that and their chocolate cake fixation that had just been brought to light, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock would notice the next time they met. He grimaced, dreading his brother's derision. Not that his opinion mattered, but having his weight be a running joke was tiresome. He remembered Vesta's words last night, though, that he might benefit from a taste of his own medicine. He hadn't exactly force-fed the girl, but his ominous refrain of “I insist,” went a long way towards convincing her to follow the “diet” he'd set her on. Maybe it was a good thing that that was all over now. Both parties seemed to enjoy it a bit too much.

He stepped in through his front door and stalked up the stairs to his bedroom. He checked the time. It was still early, but he started getting ready anyway. From the sounds of it, Vesta was in the bathroom, preparing as well. Sure enough, the door opened and she scuttled out, wearing a silk robe and her hair wrapped up in a towel.

Carefully, he changed into his tuxedo. Appearances were everything, making the correct impression was a must. In the silent, cavernous house, he could hear the rustle of fabric echo softly from the other end of the hall and knew that Vesta was slipping on her finery as well. His mind flicked rapidly through the inventory of her formal wear, wondering which she would choose. He was almost put together, he just had to do the tie. This was always the tricky part. He poked his head out of his door.

“Vesta!!”

“Sir?”

“Come here at once.”

“Coming, sir!”

When she stood in the doorway, he was facing the other way glowering into the mirror as he tried to do up his tie. “Track down one of the servants to help me with this,” he commanded.

And for the first time, she disobeyed an order. Instead, she walked right up to him, plucked the bow tie from his hand and slipped it around his neck. With a gentle shove to his shoulder, she turned him around to face her. “Chin up, don't move.” He tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling, hoping that Vesta knew what she was doing. Her nimble fingers twisted and adjusted, smoothed and straightened, and in under a minute it was perfectly tied. She ran her hands over it, then over his shoulders gazing up at him in umasked admiration.

“If I might speak freely?”

“Yes, what?” He scowled irritably, still looking anywhere but at his assistant, embarrassed that she could do something that he only made knots of. He fiddled with his cuff links, snapping them on and straightening them. He adjusted his watch chain across his waistcoat, twisting it nervously like a child biting his nails.

“You look very handsome tonight, sir. Quite dashing.”

“Flattery,” he muttered, determined not to care what she thought.

“I mean it. Like Bogart.”

Looking at her sharply, he gave an impatient huff. “My dear, if I'm Humphrey Bogart, then you're Ingrid Berg...man.”

He trailed off as drew his gaze over her, taking it all in. He looked confused, like her first night there when he'd seen her properly dressed for the first time. Her hair was kept back in a black wire headband, nearly invisible except for three silk-winged butterflies clustered on one side. She'd done her makeup in a dusky, stormy manner. It was almost too bold, except they were striking out to create an impression. Her dress was aquamarine silk, halter-top, dotted with sequins in floral bunches along the skirt. It flared out just a little, but not enough to become an obstacle. He looked down at her feet, having realized as she was fixing his tie that they were standing closer to the same height. She wore high silver heels that glittered with rhinestone buckles clipped daintily at her ankles. She even wore elbow-length white satin gloves and carried a matching clutch purse.

“You...” Mycroft breathed, “look perfectly elegant.”

Vesta smiled, basking in his praise, and lifted her skirt back a little to look at her shoes. “I practiced walking in them all morning. They don't even hurt. Anyway...shall we?” 

Hardly realizing he was doing this, he offered her his arm. She smiled and took it, and he led them down the stairs. He took her into the library and opened the drinks cupboard. He poured a crystal glass of brandy and handed it to her.

“To steady your nerves.”

She took a sip and made a face, making her boss snigger at her. “Got the game plan?” She coughed into her elbow as the spirits stung her throat.

“I have it memorised.”

Another sip, another wry face. “I'd feel better if we had a hard copy, sir. Just in case. I like to be prepared.”

“If you insist,” he drawled disinterestedly. He grabbed the stack of papers, rolled it up into a tube, and shoved it into an inside pocket of his tailcoat. “Happy?”

“Very.”

They got in the car and drove off. Mycroft looked over at his “date”, taking in her increasingly worried expression. “Butterflies in your stomach, Vesta?”

With both hands clapped over her stomach, she shook her head. “I think it's an iguana.”

Mycroft gave her a look of disgust and morbid amusement. “Yes, now that would be something not to say when we get there. Keep your replies simple, to the point, and inoffensive to the ears.”

“You asked,” she grumbled, looking rather green.

Reaching under the seat, he came up with a silver flask and held it out to her. She declined with a shake of her head. He put it back. “What are you so nervous about? You don't have to do anything but keep a record. I have to actually do something tonight!”

“I don't like people, I don't like...being out...in front of people.”

He reached across the middle seat and patted the back of her hand. “I never knew you had ochlophobia. Fear of crowds, you know. Take deep breaths.”

“How many will there be?”

“Ten, and a plus-one for each of them. So, eighteen, not counting us.”

Vesta nodded, “Okay. I can do this.”

Mycroft peered at her, “You're really afraid, aren't you? Don't be. You'll be doing this enough, I imagine. You'll learn to enjoy it.” Part of him was starting to regret taking her as his plus-one. Not because he worried that she would embarrass him or create a scene, but because it obviously terrified her so.

“Sir? Stay with me? I...don't like facing strangers by myself.”

“What? Of course I'll stay with you. Wouldn't let you go wandering off on your own, not at an event like this.” At those words, he saw her visibly relax. She actually smiled and touched his hand in return. “That's what you were afraid of? You thought I'd throw you to the wolves and just watch?”

Vesta shrugged, “I didn't know. Oh, I don't like people!”

“Me, neither, to be honest. You won't let me face them alone, will you?” He looked her over, taking in her reassured smile, matching it with a superior smirk of his own. All around her, he saw words floating over her head, over and over: in love. _Oh, god, that's all I need! Still, if that gives me the power to calm her, then so be it._ He didn't realize it, but an astute observer would have seen the same words hovering around him as well. He assumed the fluttering feeling in his stomach was just nerves about the upcoming negotiations. Never once did Mycroft Holmes consider that it was from being on a kind-of date with Vesta.

When they arrived, and stood before the large double doors, Mycroft gave her a little nod. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

Again, he offered her his arm. She took it, squeezing a bit more tightly than she ought, and they walked up the steps together. Vesta was comforted, both by the man and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the tip of his umbrella with every other step. It lulled her into a state of calm as the doors were opened and they were welcomed into the gathering.

Mycroft couldn't help but be amused that his assistant was this skittish around strange people in general. It wasn't the matter of how powerful or influential they were in the world. She would have felt just as uncomfortable at a meeting of the carpenters' guild.

A stiff, serious-looking man glided toward them. “Mr. Holmes, you made it. Splendid. And who is your lady friend? Is there finally a Mrs. Holmes for you?”

Both parties blanched at the suggestion. Vesta gulped and looked to Mycroft for help. “Ah, no. This is Vesta Bartlett, My P.A. She was good enough to accompany me this evening.”

This apparently was cause for amusement, as the strange man gave a great laugh and called another gentleman over to see. “Look here. Mycroft Holmes has a date!”

“I'm endangering the mission, I shouldn't have come,” Vesta murmured with a sidelong smirk.

“It's your imagination,” he replied succinctly, freeing his arm from her grasp and pressing his hand to her back.

“Who is she, your cousin? Or perhaps someone you hired for the evening?”

The first man's wife peered intently at Vesta with no sense of embarrassment. “Too pretty to be a relation. Bit young for you, isn't she, Holmes? Robbing the cradle?”

“Or maybe I'm robbing the grave,” Vesta replied tartly, grinning at her own wit. A quick look to her employer assured her that he wasn't wounded by her barb. Rather, he was glad she could speak up for herself. She swore she heard his demonic chuckle follow her the rest of the way in. “You're not that much older than I am, sir. I didn't mean it,” she whispered reassuringly. She needn't have bothered. Mycroft hadn't considered this before, but her transparently genuine affection for him may work to his advantage. She looked truly pleased to be with him, which no one could pass off as being hired to play a part, or a gang-pressed relative. As other peering eyes observed them together, it was clear that she would be on no one else's arm but that of the dreaded Mycroft Holmes. Word quickly filtered that the Angel of Death himself had a lady friend.

“This way,” he muttered dryly, steering her in and away from this prying gaggle. “There, you made it through the worst of it. That wasn't so bad.”

Mycroft pulled a seat out for his date and scooted her in when was settled into it. Others were trickling in now as well, and he noted with grim satisfaction that the lady accompanying one of the amateur comedians he'd just pressed passed was staring at her place setting with befuddlement. Obviously a hired date with no clue as to the gravity of the event. He looked at Vesta, who looked calm and collected, drumming her fingers lightly through the air like a concert pianist limbering up. A small silver bell rang and service began. Two servers, one down each side, began bringing out the appetizer course. Task complete, they doubled back to wheel their cart back to the kitchen. As she cleared hers in three bites, Vesta heard one hiss to the other--

“First course torched, and the sous-chef bailed! We're dead!”

Vesta's eyes flew open in alarm, she looked back toward the doors to the kitchen where the two young men disappeared. The thrill of dread crept from her stomach up her throat and she bit her lip, taking a deep sip of white wine to steady her resolve. Decisively, she tugged off her gloves and handed them to Mycroft.

“What the devil are you doing?!” he hissed.

She took a deep breath, looking from her boss to the doors, and back again. “What my chef taught me. All hands on deck,” she whispered. “Be right back.”

Mycroft looked at her, then to the doors, and understood. “You know what to do.”

It could hardly be ignored that one of the guests had just leapt up and dashed into the galley kitchen. Quickly, Mycroft formulated a reason. “Please excuse her. My companion forgot to mention a severe allergy she has. Needs to run it by the kitchen to make sure nothing is contaminated.” In his thoughts he wished her luck, and was grateful that her shoes were as well-treaded as they could be. One thing he never understood about ladies' shoes was how precarious and prone to slip they were. Why would any sane woman wear something so uncomfortable and positively dangerous in the name of style? Well, he'd seen to that!

There was a general murmur of agreement as the rest of the guests resumed.

 

Vesta burst in the swinging doors. She found the two servers nervously filling baskets with bread and filling soup bowls, muttering about their demise, one of them seemed to be rapidly reciting plaintive prayers. The chef was all alone on the line, throwing away the burnt first course. Vesta clapped her hands and whistled shrilly. “Nobody panic! Guys, nobody panic. Just forget who they are. Bottom line, it's only a twenty-top. Chef, we have quails?”

“Quails? Yes.”

“Perfect. Cailles au sacrophage. Oui?”

“And who might you be?” He looked her up and down, taking in her dress and sparkly shoes.

“Someone with a pulse, aren't I? And I'm certified.”

Completely beside himself, the chef couldn't bring himself to refuse help so freely offered. “Grab an apron, you're on! Demi working. Birdies in the walk-in, puff pastry heard!”

Out in the dining room, appetiser plates were being taken away and soup was brought out. The servers were moving as slowly as they could to buy the back of the house precious time, while not arousing suspicion. Mycroft heard his assistant's delighted squeal and knew all would be well.

“Do we have foie gras left from the appetiser course? That was very good by the way, I demand the recipe.”

“Yes we do. You'll have it, if we survive this.”

“Rest of the night's in the box?” Vesta asked. “We solid?”

“Solid, heard!”

Vesta took the half-roasted quails out of the oven, split their backs and spooned in a quenelle of foie gras mousse, and gave it a drizzle of black truffle oil. Back in they went along with the puff pastry shells. It was fast, hot work. While all of that was in the oven, she and the chef put together a modest medley of spring vegetables tossed in herbed butter. They formed an assembly line with the two servers and had it all plated and in the warmer.

Another gasping, happy squeal. “Stop the clock!” She cried out with glee, wiping her hands off and whipping off her apron. “You good?”

“I think we have the rest of it covered. Thank you.”

She slid her fingers over her hair, smoothed her dress, and clicked out primly with a calm, collected demeanor. She took her seat, pleased that nobody here was in the habit of eating fast. Most of them were still working on their soup and making conversation.

Mycroft flicked out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She gratefully accepted it, dabbing herself off. “Hot back there,” she remarked with a grin as she stuck it in her purse. Mycroft handed her her gloves back as well.

Having worked up an appetite, she started in on her rapidly-cooling soup. She didn't mind in the slightest. When she finished and her dish was removed, the server gave her a grateful smile and dropped a slip of paper next to her hand with the recipe she'd requested.

When their first course was presented, the chef came forward and announced, “Due to technical difficulties beyond our control, we were forced to make a slight menu change. Truffled roast quail in pastry, bon appetit.” A rippled murmur of surprise bubbled across the table and the plates were brought out. When receiving his plate, Mycroft leaned in close to his date and whispered, “Well done.”

“Oh, pfft, it was nothing. I learned this from a Danish foodie art film.”

“Have you any idea what you've done?”

“Yeah, saved the kitchen staff's collective behind,” she grinned in satisfaction, sopping up the demi glace with her puff pastry and nibbling the quail's head.

“Yes, there's that...but any success on the side of the British Government, as hosts of this event, I give you a share of the credit.”

Hearing this, Vesta went completely ashen. “Wh-at?”

“Politics is traditionally played at the dinner table and the golf course. Any reason for our guests to be displeased would have looked badly on us and given someone else the upper hand. This could have been a disaster. Right now, whether they know it or not, you...own the room. When I told you before I'd have you knighted for your cake recipe, I was joking. If tonight's negotiations fall to our favor, I won't be. Well done,” he said again as he dug into his quail. Vesta gave a shrill, nervous laugh, grateful she hadn't known that when she joined in the fray.

All down the table, she heard various exclamations of pleasure. Many of them didn't even seem to remember what they were supposed to be served. The rest of the meal was thankfully free of incident, and soon it wound down to a close for business to be conducted.

“I changed my mind. They've hired a stenographer who will take it down and print transcripts. You've done enough already. Go on out front and mingle with the others. This will be a few hours,” Mycroft told her, giving her a little nudge.

Vesta obeyed, finishing her glass of sherry. “Good luck, Chief. Own the room.” She gave him a wink and bravely touched his shoulder, patting it as she stood up and left. The other plus-ones seemed to be headed to the front room where they'd entered. There were comfortably upholstered chairs scattered throughout and a wandering server with a tray of champagne flutes. Another came through with a coffee cart. Vesta sank down into the first available seat, still feeling out of breath. She accepted a glass of champagne and had to resist the urge to pour it over her head.

“So, what are you allergic to, that you had to make sure didn't contaminate your food?” A well-dressed older lady asked.

“Oak. Anything from an oak cask makes me horribly ill,” Vesta answered smoothly. “Most chardonnays, artificial vanilla, that kind of thing.”

“But we had chardonnay with the intermezzo,” she returned, obviously looking to trap her, to find out the real reason she'd dashed into the kitchen.

“Mine was naked. Unoaked. It's getting more available, you know. Some people aren't overly fond of malolactic fermentation.”

“Oh,” the lady responded, feeling put out. She'd obviously wished for a more interesting story. She wandered off, perhaps hoping to hear more intriguing gossip.

Vesta attempted polite conversation with the available guests, but quickly found that she didn't have much to talk about with them. She preferred the quiet, and soon the other dates left her alone to her thoughts. As the evening drew out, a few approached her again and asked her about Mycroft, and she honestly answered that she admired him and found him to be pleasant company. This pronouncement startled those who heard it. It soon came up that she was his personal assistant. She never realized before how infamous her employer was! Everyone there seemed frankly alarmed that she had nothing but nice things to say about him. Determined not to toss away any of his mystique or reputation, Vesta chose to pepper her complimentary report on her boss with the most awful things she'd ever heard him to be responsible for. She chirped happily about his near-enmity with his brother and habitual kidnapping of his trusty sidekick. “And then just as he sent Sherlock off to certain death, he called him back at the last minute. God, I wish I'd had a brother growing up! That must have been fun for them.”

All of the others drew away from her at this, whispering among themselves. It appeared to them that Mycroft had found someone just as devoid of a soul as he was himself! Odd, how such socially unpleasant people could be so happy together. Many had been quick to note how the intimidating man fairly glowed while his lady friend was on his arm and at his side. How he'd kept glancing over at the doors to the kitchen when she'd disappeared, the relief on his face when she returned, evidently in success. They'd made almost unseemly faces at each other while they ate their dessert. There was a suggestive hint to their use of their spoons. While most people would accept that someone as powerful as Mycroft Holmes would be an impressive man, and one who might open doors, his date simply couldn't take her eyes off of him! These woefully maladjusted freaks were obviously made for each other. Several shrugged off this fact, remarking that it just proved there was someone for everybody.

 

Another hour passed when the meeting finally was adjourned. Mycroft came out at the head of the crowd. He had a spring in his step and a satisfied grin on his face. He twirled his umbrella and waved for his assistant. Vesta sprang up and followed at his heels, sparkling in his wake. They traipsed down to their waiting car, and as they drove away, Mycroft let out a rather unbecoming groan of relief.

“This must be how you felt when you threw together twenty first courses in twenty minutes. I'm afraid I can't divulge classified details, but...success!”

“Well done, sir,” Vesta sighed, feeling wonderfully giddy as well. “We'll have to celebrate when we get home.”

“Oh, this...I do this regularly enough. Ordinary people don't have any idea what really goes on all around them. It's a constant battle.”

She reached into the small refrigerator by her feet and opened a bottle of water for her boss, certain that he was probably sore from talking all evening. She poured it into a glass and handed it to him, finishing the rest of the bottle herself. The drive home was nice and quiet, neither of them realizing that they each wore dreamily contented smiles.


	5. Making Things Hard on Themselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because why do things the easy way?

Once they got home and were in the door, they climbed up the stairs with heavy feet. When they reached the top and were about to go their separate ways, Vesta turned her back and said, “Can you start unzipping me, sir? It's a bit hard to reach.”

Dumbly, Mycroft gulped, placing a nervous hand to the girl's shoulder to steady them both, and drew the zipper down. He stared at her back, had the strange desire to touch it, draw his fingers down between her shoulder-blades...

“Thanks!” she said as she skipped off to her room to undress. He had just gone into his room to take off his tux when he heard Vesta call down the hall, “Oh, it's good to get that off, isn't it, Mr. Holmes?”

He laid his clothes on a chair for the housekeeper to tend to and got dressed for bed. His mind was still processing all that had transpired, and he knew sleep would not come easily to him tonight. He'd just lain down when his phone's text alert beeped.

 

_Not sleepy yet. Join me? --V_

_Where? --MH_

_Downstairs --V_

He got out of bed and pulled a black dressing gown over his purple pinstripe pyjamas, sticking his phone in his back pocket. He heard a light clattering of dishes and the tinkle of glassware. At the end of the dining room table was a candelabra lit with three tall, white tapers. The swinging door to the kitchen opened and Mycroft strode toward it to catch it before it swung back. Vesta came out with their stashed cake, a large knife, and a couple of forks. Under her arm she carried a cold bottle of champagne and two glasses threaded through her fingers. She set it down where they usually sat. Mycroft was quick to notice she hadn't bothered with plates. He was quietly amused by her elimination of the middleman. While Vesta cut the cake, he popped open the champagne and poured them each a glass. He sat down in his usual seat, but she took a chair closer to him than where she normally sat. It was a perfect arrangement for their needs tonight. She looked perfectly comfortable in her purple and white pjs. They'd unconsciously matched each other, getting shy smirks from both of them.

He handed her a glass and clinked them together. “To a successful evening,” he toasted.

“Front and back of the house,” Vesta added, taking a healthy gulp with a grin. She refilled their glasses. “To the British government. Fingers in pies. Sometimes actual fingers.”

“Sometimes actual pies,” he added, a grin creeping up his face. He finished that glass in short order, too. Again he topped them off.

“You're a magician,” she praised admiringly.

“And where...would a magician be...without his lovely assistant?” he clinked glasses with her again.

“Are you going to saw me in half, Chief?” She giggled.

“I've thought about it,” he giggled back, unable to fathom what he was feeling now. It wasn't just the alcohol, he was certain of that. He'd learned it often brought on more melancholy than relief from troubles. He fed her a gooey bit of cake, getting one in return. He gave a soft moan of pleasure and leaned back in his seat. “What would Sherlock say about this?” he wondered aloud. Both of them sniggered over that possibility.

In his back pocket, his phone screen lit up. “Calling Sherlock...”

 

At Baker Street, Sherlock had John over and they were spending the wee hours of the night working together. It was a welcome change, the two obviously missed each other badly. They both jumped when they heard the phone ring.

“It's Mycroft, he never calls this late. I wonder what he wants,” Sherlock muttered before answering. “Hello?” His expression, though, became drawn and confused. He took the phone away from his ear and looked at it before putting it back, listening some more. All he heard was muffled pleasurable moans and giggles. One of them was female. Sherlock's eyebrows raised exaggeratedly before creeping back down in a bemused scowl. “Mycroft? Hello?”

“Oh, god that's good,” he heard his brother growl.

“Very good,” a woman's voice agreed.

“Ready for more?”

“Mmm...”

 

John looked up curiously. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“Shhh!” He hissed, waving him over. “I think...I think my brother has a girlfriend!”

“No! Oh, god, are you saying they butt-dialed you? What are they doing?”

“You're the more experienced party, you tell me.” He held the phone out for his friend to listen. “And, it seems so, unless he called me up and thought he could make me jealous.”

John held his ear to the phone for another second before scuttling away, horrified at eavesdropping on the most powerful man in the country in such an intimate moment. “Hang it up, Sherlock, Christ!” Amid his horror, he couldn't help but feel relieved. Happy for the isolated man who apparently has finally found companionship with someone.

 

Back at Mycroft's house, they'd eaten another quarter of the cake before finally putting it away in the interest of self-restraint. The champagne was all gone and they were both slumped over the table, riding out a satisfying food-gasm.

“May I speak freely, sir?”

“We're feeding each other cake in our pyjamas in the middle of the night. Be as free as you like.”

Vesta blinked at him, grinning, looking about as contentedly replete as he felt. “I love you, sir.”

Mycroft sat up straighter, trying to force himself to sober up. He looked rather annoyed. “No, you don't. You've had plenty to drink tonight, we're both happy about how well we did, it was a marvelous evening to be had, and I'm glad that--” _that you were there..._ He shook that off. “it all ended in our favor. But you _don't_ love me. It's not...you don't even...Nobody...” He stood, and his speechless state and loss of balance had nothing to do with imbibing. He looked into her flushed, sticky face and wanted to...do something, he wasn't sure what. He never suffered these impulses before, was never affected by another human being in quite this way. She looked so deliciously stuffed, he had the mad idea to keep feeding her more. It struck him that he'd gotten the same almost obscene pleasure from her feeding him. _Oh, what a pair we make..._ he thought shamefacedly. “You...are a goldfish. I'm...worlds beyond you. You can't possibly understand. You don't love me, that's the end of it. In any case, thank you for...this, and for being my date tonight. Thank you.” And with that, he dragged himself up the stairs.

Vesta sat there for a moment, hurt by his bitter words. But still, whether he'd believe it or not, she did understand. Maybe not everything that went on in that head of his, but she could guess what he was playing at. He didn't want to believe she loved him. For all of his astounding intellect, the idea that someone might know him and genuinely love him would break his brain.

Mycroft lay in bed, anticipating the headache—and the stomachache—he would be facing in the morning. Luckily he didn't have anything scheduled, so he could lie around and moan all he wanted. He thought of Vesta. Sweet, simple Vesta, saying she loved him. He buried his face in his pillow, growling at how he'd dismissed her. Then he remembered, why should he care? So he hurt someone's feelings, so what? Why did he suddenly feel remorse? He'd just spent an hour indulging in that ridiculously good cake with equally good company, and now it had gone straight to his head. He was doing her a favor, really, by dismissing her confession. It couldn't have been true. He knew they had a pleasurable working relationship, both of them appealed to the other's sensibilities. By some bizarre fluke, their personalities complimented each other well, but love? Piffle.

 

Vesta woke up at four o'clock, annoyed that wine may help one get to sleep, it certainly doesn't let one stay asleep. Last night had been such a roller coaster. Fear, elation, zen-like perfection, and humiliation. _I told him I loved him. While I was a bit drunk. Ugh, how am I even going to look him in the eye after this? Maybe he'll pretend it never happened. Yes, he'll do that._ Still, she stretched out in bed, filled with a sad wish to have him beside her. Then she heard something...something, someone in her room. She lay perfectly still, pretending to still be asleep. She heard the familiar tap...tap...her heart flew up into her throat. She felt cool fingers touch her cheek, her forehead. She never felt so torn: should she open her eyes, or let him slip away, seemingly undetected? It would spare him any awkwardness, and after what she had just put him through, she felt he deserved at least that much. She heard him sigh with a frustrated growl. Heard him drop something on her night stand and stalk out. Once her door was closed, Vesta sat up and saw a note.

Vesta,

I'm writing this down like this because I'm sure that come morning, your text alert would make your head explode. We're taking tomorrow off. I don't anticipate being up and about, nor should you. I've left messages for the staff. Unfortunately, I still do not have the influence needed to turn off the sun. My apologies.

\--MH

She read the note twice through, smiling at it. He'd written it with his own hand. She fell asleep again sometime near dawn, waking up sometime just before noon. She didn't bother getting dressed, just pulled on a fleecy dressing gown to keep warm while she wandered the house, looking for her superior. When she found no sign of him, she fixed a cup of his favorite tea, made some chicken vegetable soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Figuring they overdid it on fancier fare lately, Vesta thought something simple might coax a wayward appetite, especially if he wasn't feeling well. Arranging it all on a tray, she looked up and spotted that she'd been found out by the sous-chef, Jamie. He held a finger to his lips and motioned her over to the dumbwaiter that led to the master bedroom. She went to the office for paper and a pen, and wrote “Feel better soon, Chief –V” Once it was hoisted up, she heard Mycroft remove the tray from the lift. She scurried back upstairs in time to get a text from her boss.

_What in blazes are you doing up? --MH_

_I don't get hangovers. Need anything else? --V_

_Not at the moment. Thank you. --MH_

Mycroft ate his lunch and sent the dishes back down, then got up and out of bed. While he was getting dressed, he heard the front door open, some murmuring, and then the door shut again. The butler had received and dealt with the caller, and handed the master of the house a square package. Mycroft turned it over in his hand, tearing open the box and sliding out what was inside. He gave it a smile before making his way to Vesta's room. He heard music playing softly and saw her lying on her stomach in bed, reading something on her tablet and kicking her feet in the air. He cleared his throat, tapping on the door frame.

Vesta looked around at him, surprised! She quickly turned her music volume down and whispered, “How are you feeling?” It was odd to see him in anything but a three-piece suit. Until recently, she suspected him of sleeping in them. He stood before her in khakis and a dark blue wool jumper. He looked invitingly cozy. 

“I'll live.”

“Sir, I am so sorry about last night,” she whispered softly, blushing again.

“No, nothing to apologise for. It's true we both ate too much, drank too much...”

“Talked too much,” she provided self-deprecatingly.

“I won't hold anything you said last night against you. We'll soldier on. Understood? Look, I...regret some of the things I said to you last night as well. So, we'll just throw it out. Fresh start tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. And thanks for last night. I had a lovely time.”

“You did well. Oh, and here. I made a few phone calls this morning.” He produced a filigreed certificate in a frame. “I assumed you wouldn't like a formal presentation, with your aversion to crowds.”

Vesta took it and her eyes bugged out of her head. She looked up at him, dumbfounded. Despite what he said last night, she'd been certain that it was another of his jokes. There, in black and white, were words pronouncing her to be an Officer in the Order of the British Empire. 

Mycroft leaned the frame against her dresser mirror. Having nails pounded into the walls would wait for another day. Rarely had he used his powers for the good of ordinary people, or without the expectation of future favors or advantage, but seeing the look on her face made him wonder why that was. She practically had fireworks shooting off over her head. She gave a hysterical giggle.

“All this for a couple of quails,” she sniggered.

“For maintaining control of the room. You're a natural.” He barely brushed her face with a finger and her heart gave a flip.

“Oh, sir,” she sighed under her breath, shivering.

“Rest up. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

Vesta laughed softly, “I do,” and held up her phone. She scrolled through the calendar and recited: “10:15 with the Greek ambassador, I've got it arranged to conduct it on Skype. 2:30 with...Voldemort, apparently, all they said was 'You Know Who' at the palace, and a 4:00 with the piecost.”

Mycroft made a face, “What's a piecost?”

Grinning at him for a comedic beat, she answered, “About £3.”

The man brought a hand up to his face, looking annoyed while he really tried not to laugh. A rogue giggle escaped him which he couldn't quite disguise as a cough without hurting his head. “That was terrible.”

“Sorry, Chief.”

“I'm going back to bed. See you tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

 

The next day was quite busy. Despite only having two appointments, both of them took several hours to conduct. Factoring in time for traffic, Mycroft didn't expect to be home until dusk. Then he got a text.

_I know something about you, Mycroft. If you want to talk about it, do stop by. –SH_

He rolled his eyes and ordered his driver to take him to Baker Street. Sherlock heard him coming up the stairs with a wicked smile. He seriously wondered about the man's umbrella fixation. Today had been hot and sunny, and yet he could hear the tap, tap, tap up the stairs.

“So, dear brother, apparently congratulations are in order,” Sherlock greeted him.

At a momentary loss, Mycroft looked incredulous, “Congratulations? Well, good news travels fast, I know, but I didn't realize my business matters were common knowledge.”

“Business matters?” The detective looked amused, a pert look touched his lips and he took up his violin, knowing it annoyed his brother.

“Yes, but I don't see why you would care about such things. Very little bloodshed at these negotiations. No need for your...magnifier, either.” He poked Sherlock in the chest with his umbrella.

 _Didn't need to hear that!_ The younger Holmes thought. “Negotiations?”

Mycroft examined the tip of his umbrella before swapping hands, “Is there an echo in here?”

“Just curious about your choice of words, brother mine. I thought this had something to do with your new P.A.”

“Yes, she was marvelous,” he smiled toothily, “Far above the call of duty. Had her made an O.B.E.”

“Well, she definitely earned that,” Sherlock remarked. “So long as you two are getting on so...cozily.”

Now it was Mycroft's turn to look confused at his brother's word choice. “Yes, I suppose. Good fit, over all.”

“Yes, that's what it sounded like.” He chuckled wickedly. “Seems domestic bliss suits you. You're looking...well. Getting that tummy back, I see. I did miss that.” He gave him a poke with his violin bow.

Mycroft scowled. “Domestic bliss, really? Out of the whole wide world of weight-related jokes, you insinuate domestic bliss? Not your usual brand of weaponry, brother mine.”

“It wasn't a joke. You've got a girlfriend now. Congratulations.”

“Is that what you were talking about?”

Sherlock played a few warm-up scales absently, “Yes, of course, what were you talking about?”

“I'd...really rather not say.”

“So,” Sherlock took out his phone and brought up the call history. “You weren't entertaining a lady friend at two o'clock yesterday morning?” Mycroft's eyes widened guiltily. “Ah, so you were!”

“It wasn't what it...sounded like.”

“You leaned up against your phone, blurted out my name for some unfathomable reason, the voice recognition called me, and I got to listen to you and your girlfriend moaning and giggling like a couple of university students.” Sherlock put his phone away and gestured broadly with his bow. “I meant it. I'm happy for you. I assumed it was your P.A. because she seemed so taken with you when you brought her here, and who else could you be...engaged with at that hour of the night?”

Mycroft sank down into a chair, smirking his face off. “Ah, Sherlock, you see but you do not observe. Give me a good once-over. Have I engaged in sexual relations? Ever?”

Sherlock's eyes flicked over his brother thoughtfully, and he was surprised by what it revealed. “No. Then...? Then what the hell were you and Vesta doing at that hour?”

“None of your concern, dear brother.”

“She has been feeding you up, though,” Sherlock announced, pointing again with his weapon of choice.

“If she wishes to get in my good books through those means...”

“But then why did you have her knighted?”

“For her indispensable help at my meeting. She kept the ship afloat during a crisis. Didn't even blink. All she could think of was the kitchen staff getting into trouble. Standing by her brothers in the trenches.”

“Oh. Not what I was expecting.”

“Obviously. Shall we draw these pleasantries to a close now?”

Sherlock scowled, like he just missed a real treat. “Yes, please. You know the way out.”

 

Vesta was just finishing a solitary supper when Mycroft finally got home. She looked up at him, relieved. He'd sent her a text after he left Buckingham Palace, but failed to mention his detour. It made him even later than he'd anticipated, and his assistant was getting worried. He sat down and was brought his dinner. The cooks had kept it hot for him. Pork medallions with caramelized onions and rosemary cream sauce. He detected a touch of Himalayan sea salt along the edge of the plate. Herbes de provence, too. He'd come to associate that blend of seasonings with his assistant's deft hand. Mycroft looked across the table at her and she detected the recognition in his glance. They smiled at each other. He was getting good. 

Talking to Sherlock had actually done him some good, regardless of intent. He was right, his assistant had been drawn to him from the start, but...surely, she was only infatuated with him! On the way home, he replayed moments they'd shared together in the last few weeks. Times they'd just been working quietly together in their office, their more active discussions and rants, the occasions when he'd tutored her on her job. She thought he was funny, she'd said so on her first day out with him. He was certain she only said that to curry favor, but...she truly seemed to think so! In his revisiting of memories, he found moments of them sniggering darkly together, even outright laughing in honest joviality. No one had ever thought he was funny before. Funny-looking, funny in the head, but not able to make someone laugh. Yet, he made her laugh. He made her _happy!_ They made each other happy...

“Long day, sir?”

“Yes, it was. I trust you held down the fort?”

She nodded, flicking through screens of calenders and text messages. “Busy here, too. Tomorrow's just a couple quick ones. You could even do one of them via email. Actually...it almost looks like they want me to respond, rather than you. Some foreign diplomat's son has been in the country for a year and is rather taken with a local girl...wants to know how he might express a romantic interest.”

Mycroft smirked, “I think you're better qualified to answer that than I would be. I know nothing of such matters. Never had such inclinations.”

“I've never been asked out in my life, either,” she confessed, looking out of her depth.

 _Never? Dear lord, no wonder she attached herself to me._ He smirked, picturing them as a couple, unable to deny that there were foundations of similarities between the two of them. They both abhorred ordinary society and thrived more in the background. They had a similar morbid sense of humor and intolerance for idiots. They felt...comfortable with each other, comfortable enough to be themselves with each other. The very things that made them naturally repellant to normal people drew them together. _Still, we couldn't._ Though Mycroft couldn't quite say why. The idea terrified him. _Could we?_

“Well, surely you've been interested yourself. How would you have liked someone to proceed? Go with that.” He heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back. He looked too tired to discuss it further. Vesta took his suggestion into consideration and rose to go to her room. She stepped behind her boss and gave his shoulders a rub. He gave a short, interrogative grunt and looked over his shoulder at her. She continued, massaging his shoulders and back, making small circles around his neck, feeling a pleasant, warm tingle inside her as she did so.

“You worked hard today,” she explained sympathetically. “Dealing with all of that, must be enough to make your nerves scream. No wonder you go to a club where no one is allowed to talk.”

Mycroft hummed softly in agreement. “That's nice,” he breathed. “Thank you.” _What the hell am I saying? Since when do I thank people? What in the world has gotten into me? Am I really so obvious?_ It chilled him to think others would see his heart on his sleeve. He recalled the dream he had about his previous assistant, how she'd insisted that he loved Vesta but was too rubbish at it to do anything. He groaned, he couldn't even do what she'd asked him to do, to let her say it. Why is she rubbing my shoulders? Why does it feel so nice? I keep thinking thoughts I've never once entertained. Is it getting hotter in here? He ran a finger under his collar, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. Vesta's fingers slid under there as well and gave him a little scratch around his neck, right where his skin was feeling irritated. He thought of the two of them, indulging their mutual feeding tendencies, their same lust for food. He'd never known anyone else to share his peculiarity. Not that he'd ever asked around, of course.

“Did you mean what you said the other night?” He asked abruptly.

“Yes, I did,” she replied softly, still kneading his back.

“Really? You...love me?”

Hope kindled in her heart when she answered, “Yes, really.”

“Are you able to keep it from interfering with your work?”

And her hopes were dashed again. Vesta gave his shoulders a harder pounding than she'd originally intended. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I expected you would. You have sense enough.”

Vesta sighed, not sure what to say to that. She stopped her massage and withdrew to her room for some peace and quiet. As she lay on her bed, she tried to think up a good answer for the ambassador's son.

 

An hour later, Mycroft was lounging in his office when he got a call from Sherlock. “Hello?”

“She says, 'If you can't say it, sing it. Or find someone who can.'"

“Sing it?” Mycroft sounded horrified at the idea.

“That's what it says. She confesses to being raised on musicals. So, what are you going to do?”

The elder Holmes tipped back in his seat thoughtfully. “Well, since I obviously can't 'say it' or 'sing it'...I'll have to find someone who can.”

 

Weeks passed since this awkward conversation had first been opened. Nothing more had been said about Vesta's confession of love, but, true to her word, she did not allow it to interfere with conducting business as usual. Mycroft had even came as close as he would come to a sincere apology and attempt to make up when he texted her a picture of a cake in the middle of the night, followed by only a question mark. Vesta joined him then, relieved that they hadn't lost even their most guilty pleasure due to her runaway mouth. They were both glad that when words failed, they still had that. Still, they never spoke of the matter, and certainly never addressed it by the light of day, even when their last such midnight snack was held in the back kitchen, sitting in front of the refrigerator, and ended with the two of them collapsed on each other in a food-coma induced heap. When they woke up from that, they'd merely gazed curiously at each other, heatedly...but unable to do more. 

One morning after breakfast, Vesta found Mycroft pacing nervously in his office. He kept checking something on his phone. Frankly, he looked ill.

“All right there, Chief?” Vesta inquired, swiveling into her own chair to start up her usual morning three-ring circus.

“Fine, fine...” he muttered absently. “Um... there's an evening event that I just penciled in. Be ready.”

“Can you be any more specific?”

He shook his head, “Afraid not.” He quickly inspected her outfit with a mild nod. “No need to change. That will be acceptable.”

“All right...” she agreed, still feeling awfully suspicious, but considering that she's dealing with the personification of the British government, being secretive came with the territory. He'd been acting funny lately, he sometimes sounded nervous around her when they'd once suited each other so well. She supposed that knowing she was fond of him would make him uncomfortable. While she didn't go shouting it from the rooftops, Vesta still took small pleasure in tending to him when she could. Arranging the odd treat, a much-needed back rub, highlighting and colour-coding his timetables and meeting's minutes. Any little thing that might be a help.

Mycroft strode vaguely around the room, his mind everywhere at once. Tonight was the night. Over the past few weeks following his assistant's confession, she hadn't made it easy to forget. He was used to things being done for him, but for the life of him he couldn't ignore the fact that she was being _kind_ to him! Her affections were not detracting from her work. Quite the contrary. He found her to be as attentive and detail-oriented as ever. He pretended not to notice or care, or that he merely tolerated such treatment, acting like the ice-man he was known as. Untouched, unfeeling...simply above such foolishness. Still, it was getting difficult to ignore. He'd finally accepted the truth, what he'd realized early on was finally recognized for what it was.

His phone rang and he ceased his pacing to answer. “Yes?”

“Sir, we got him.”

“Good. Is he cooperating?”

 

“Sing it, or find someone who can...” Mycroft had repeated to himself many times since Vesta had offered that suggestion. “Makes sense, really. You don't stammer when you sing, makes it easier to broach uncomfortable subjects. Touch of levity. Makes it personal, memorable...”

He'd spent a good deal of effort coming up with a wild goose chase to send Vesta on while arrangements were made. Most important of which was a call to his parents, which he rarely allowed himself to endure. Still, in this case, they would be the experts...

“Oh, Mikey, it's good to see you!” His mother cooed at him from the computer screen.

“Please don't call me that, Mother,” he muttered, wanting to get this over with as quickly as he could. “Dad, please ask Mother why she gave me a perfectly good name if she intends to keep cutting it short.”

“He has a point, dear. You called him that when he was five. He's a grown man. The boys like their weird names you gave them! Go ahead, Mycroft, what can we do?”

“Thanks, Dad,” Mycroft said gratefully. “Look, this isn't usual for me as you know, to ask your advice on something.” He paused and fidgeted, drawing a deep breath. “Are you two happy? Were you ever happy, are you still? And if so, how in the hell did you manage it?”

“Language, Mikey...Mycroft,” his mother admonished sternly, exchanging a look with her husband. “Of course we're happy, dear. Your father and I may have had some rocky spots, but that's never stopped us for long, you know.”

“Why so curious about this, all of a sudden?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“I've...I may have...I think I've...uh...”

“Is there someone...?” his mother asked, looking very keen. Long had she hoped that her sons would find someone to make them happy. Someone to love.

“What's his name?” his father asked eagerly.

“Her!” Mycroft blurted out. “ _Her_ name is Vesta.”

His parents looked at each other again. “Oh! A she? Really? Well, you're full of surprises today, Mikey. Mycroft.”

“Don't strain yourself,” he snarled.

“Sorry, dear. But do tell us about her!”

“Well, that's sort of the issue I needed your advice on. See, she's, uh...she's...”

“Ordinary,” his father wisely surmised. “Like me?” Mycroft nodded. “Looks like you do take after your mother. You want to know if it can work, is that right?”

“Yes, Dad. You'd, uh, you'd both like her. She,” he laughed wildly, remembering, “she loves Les Miz.”

His parents both smiled, pleased that their difficult to know son was discovering that he was more human than he thought. “You have something planned for tonight, don't you, dear?”

“I'm certainly going to try. I'm—ahem—going to tell her I love her. Somehow. It's a bit unorthodox but...well, she's enough like me to...not do things the normal way.” He acquired a strange, dreamy look on his face as he said that. _She's enough like me! Not precisely, but enough! Maybe that's...?_ “Is that what it takes, Mummy? You don't have to be...just alike, but, as long as you enjoy each other? Two people...who are so different, can they really care for each other?”

His mother nodded sagely, looking so pleased with her son, glad to see he had a heart after all. “That's what it takes, Mycroft,” his father added. “Good luck.”

It was perfect timing. No sooner had he ended communication than Vesta walked in the door. She gave him an annoyed look as the butler took her coat. “The old pan-stretcher gag,” she muttered mutinously, realizing she'd been had. Mycroft flashed a reptilian grin.

“Have to keep you on your toes, my dear. I had classified matters to attend to. Couldn't risk you listening in.”

Amid her annoyance, Vesta had to appreciate old occupational humour. “Clever.”

“So I'm told.”

 

Meanwhile, at an undisclosed location, one of Mycroft's private jets landed on the street of one David Cassidy. Two men in black suits disembarked and brought him out of his house. There was a confused struggle, but they got him on the plane.

“Hey, what's going on here? Where are you taking me? Answer me!”

“You have been requested for a private concert of the highest caliber,” is all that one of the black-suited men would say. He switched on a monitor where his employer appeared.

“Ah, good. I hope my men didn't alarm you, Mr. Cassidy. Rest assured, you will not be harmed. Your presence is required and in return for your cooperation, I will strike you from my People to Kill list. Are we clear?”

“Hey, man, I don't know who you are, but I don't do birthday parties, I don't do Walmart grand openings, and I don't do 'private concerts.'”

“A great deal of research was conducted to select you. Believe me, it wouldn't have been my choice, but the audience for whom you are slated to perform would very much appreciate your...music, for lack of a better term.”

“You're not a fan, I take it.”

“That's putting it mildly. I've loathed you ever since I heard your ridiculous songs repeated in the halls while I was at school. This is not the act of a crazed stalker. It's really quite simple. You come quietly, agree to our terms, and when you are finished you will be free to go.”

Then the screen went black.

That evening, around five o'clock, Mycroft had started pacing again, checking his watch and looking up out the window. Soon, he was rewarded by the sound of a plane engine. Vesta looked up as well, taking in her boss's anticipating expression.

“If you'll excuse me, there are a few more preparations to be made. Dinner will be late tonight.” He sauntered down a dark hallway they never use, swinging his umbrella with a satisfied strut.

Vesta smiled, for some reason that habitual fixation of his struck her as endearing. Her boss, cock of the walk. Whatever he was up to, she was glad to see him looking so pleased.

He walked into a disused room where his henchmen had the 70's heartthrob. They'd already acquired a suitable outfit for him, and were in the process of grooming him against his will.

“Mr. Cassidy, do stop struggling.”

“Just what exactly is this?”

“I believe I've been quite clear. You have been selected as the most appropriate performer for this monumental event.”

“Couldn't you just find a cover band or something? Without resorting to kidnapping?! Just wait til the cops show up! Then we'll see what's what.”

Mycroft checked his pocket watch again, “Yes, quite,” he drawled, unimpressed. “Here, use my phone. Be my guest. I assure you, however, that when they triangulate your location, you will find you are well outside of any police jurisdiction. Go ahead, though. Tell them you're at Mycroft Holmes' house. See if that brings them scurrying in.” The former singer snatched the phone from the ominous-looking man's fingers. “It's 999 here, not 911. Just to avoid confusion.”

He dialed, not taking his eyes off his captors. “Yes, hello? I'm calling to report a kidnapping! Me!”

“Please wait while we verify your location. Oh...”

“What's wrong?”

“You're at...a classified location, do you know that?”

“Classified?”

“Have you been harmed in any way?”

Mycroft smirked mockingly at him, shaking his head.

“No, I haven't, but I'm--”

“I'm sorry, sir, but it seems you're the guest of a...rather illustrious person. We don't interfere with him and he doesn't interfere with us.”

The line went dead.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who's dying to get you up on stage again,” he replied wickedly, giving his shoulder a poke with his umbrella. “And you'd better give the performance of your life. I'll leave you to get ready. I've hired a suitable backup band for you. They seem to be well-versed. Ta.”

 

He swaggered out, sniggering to himself. Then, his eyes fell on Vesta, watching him return with shining eyes. “So far, so good,” he reported, giving his umbrella a twirl. “There's time. I'll call you when I need you.”

Vesta nodded, laying aside her clipboard and going up to her room. She wasn't sure what was going to happen. Mycroft was being awfully tight-lipped about it.

As soon as she disappeared, his nerves kicked back in again. He gazed up the stairs, still trying to make sense of these strange stirrings. It was well beyond his capacity. He felt cold all over, clutching his umbrella for support. He drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed off his neck. Then he looked at it, seeing that it was one of hers. They did tend to share and swap theirs around. He would have taken that as a good omen, if he believed in them. Silly idea, though, to put stock in such portents. Things were now set in motion, no going back now.

The appointed time ticked nearer, and Mycroft went up the stairs and peeked into Vesta's room.

“It's time. Come down and join me in the library.”

Knowing better than to ask questions, Vesta obeyed, wondering why her employer suddenly looked so grey. He gave her a twitchy little smile while holding the door for her. At the far wall, a stage had been erected, complete with curtain and lights. The gang-pressed singer peeked out into the room.

“This is stupid! Private concert, huh? Two people in the audience and one of them hates me!”

Mycroft's henchmen then shoved him out onto the stage and the spotlight was turned on him. The band behind him started to warm up. He took in the sneering face of his kidnapper and the awestruck look on his companion. Her eyes flew open wide and her hands pressed to her mouth. She dropped them to her sides, grinning with an excited squeak. He gave her a smile, wondering what these two were to each other. He looked down at what was expected that he play. He looked from the man to the woman with a gulp. _Now this could be creepy..._ The band started to play and he cringed a bit. Still, he'd been “encouraged” to give the performance of his life.

“I'm sleeping, and right in the middle of a good dream, when all at once I wake up, from something that keeps knocking at my brain. Before I go insane, I hold my pillow to my head, and spring up in my bed, screaming out the words I dread: I think I love you.”

He saw the man turn to the woman next to him, gazing intensely until by sheer force of will she looked back. 

“This morning, I woke up with this feeling, I didn't know how to deal with, and so I just decided to myself, I'd hide it to myself, and never talk about it, and did not go and shout it when you walked into the room: I think I love you...”

She kept staring at the older man, covering her mouth again in surprise. He smiled at her, lip-synching the with him.

“I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that I'm not sure of, a love there is no cure for...I think I love you, isn't that what life is made of? Though it worries me to say, I have never felt this way.”

The two members of the audience were both blushing and grinning. Mycroft reached over the couch cushion between him and his date, taking her hand. Looking at the floor, she threaded their fingers together and clasped their palms together. Both of them just looked quietly elated. She even scooted closer to him, and he to her. The second the woman took his captor's hand, the washed-up singer suddenly felt glad to be there. The man was obviously rich, powerful, and woefully out of touch, that the easiest way he could think of to tell someone he loved them was to stage something like this! He gave them the performance of his life, forgetting that he ever hated that stupid song. He didn't care that his audience didn't so much as look at him since he began. They only had eyes for each other. Perfectly mismatched in a weirdly adorable way.

When the song was over, his audience took a minute to realize, they were still lost in each other. Then, they both rose and offered a smattering of applause.

Vesta ran up to the stage, bubbling excitedly. “Oh, I can't believe it's really you! I thought you were probably dead or in prison or something.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Glad you enjoyed it.”

Mycroft approached as well, holding up his umbrella in warning. The singer knew he wasn't to admit that he had been here under threat. Something told him that it wouldn't go over well with his lady friend. “I'll leave you to your adoring fans,” he said snidely. He turned to his assistant, taking her hand again, cautiously, as if he was afraid to, then kissed it and drew it against his cheek. It was all Vesta could do not to faint. He left her to thank the performer properly and waited for her in the sitting room.

“So, he's your boyfriend?”

She grinned, looking at the door, then back at the former celebrity. “I think so.”

“This...this was weird, but kind of sweet. So, I take it he's not as bad as he seems?”

Vesta rolled her eyes a little, now guessing what went into getting Mr. Cassidy here. “Oh, no, he's exactly the way he seems. He's...interesting. Let me guess, you hadn't exactly planned on being here tonight.”

“Ah..” he faltered, “No.”

Funny, rather than looking concerned or annoyed, she looked as though it was a particularly funny joke to play on him. She obviously had a good idea of what her gentleman friend had it in him to do. “I hope he didn't scare you too badly. That's just his way. Dramatic, you know. Anyway, have a safe trip home. I'll never forget this.”

She left him to her boss's henchmen while she, too, adjourned to the front sitting room. He was led out directly behind her. They've already resumed their cozy position, just sitting together, hands clasped, smiling contently, gazing at each other coyly through the corners of their eyes. As though just being near each other was the pinnacle of romance.

The reluctant performer could not see the attraction, but he trusted they knew what they were doing. He allowed himself to be escorted back onto the plane and taken home.


	6. Navigating New Waters

The next morning, they came down to breakfast together, looking quietly happy. They sat and sipped their coffee, looking over their papers and usual morning routine. Neither of them knew what they were supposed to say or do. Vesta reached a hand across the table, still engrossed in her clipboard, and smiled when she felt his hand cover hers. She peeked up, saw his eyes were in his folder, and gave a happy little sigh at the familiarity of it. He glanced up for a second, just missing her gaze. He gave her hand a little squeeze and a pat.

Vesta felt a soft fluttering in her stomach. “Sir? Mycroft?” She tested the new boundaries of their relationship by using his first name. It already sounded comfortable in her mouth. She'd wanted to say it for ages.

He looked up. “Hmm?”

She shook her head, “Nothing. I just...I like your name.”

He looked curious, yet flattered. “Hmph. My own mother doesn't like it, and she's the one who gave it to me.” He grimaced, laying his paper aside. “She still calls me Mikey.”

Vesta laughed, “Oh, that doesn't suit you at all!”

“Any more than your old name suited you. Don't you agree?”

She sighed thoughtfully, dragging her thumb across the back of his hand. “It suited me in my old life. I'm actually glad that's over,” she added

“Yes, I think you've fit in rather well.”

They were both floundering a bit. Luckily, it was then that Mycroft's phone rang. He saw Sherlock's name come up on the caller I.D. He rolled his eyes and picked up.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Well, it now seems that congratulations are in order,” Sherlock crowed triumphantly. “Nice touch with that...Partridge Family fellow. Bet he hadn't seen the light of day in a while.”

“How in the world did you hear of that already? He was sworn on pain of death not to divulge details.”

“Oh, no, he didn't give any details. It was just on the morning news here that he'd been mysteriously taken and returned, and wouldn't you know it, I thought of you. Now, what would you need of some washed-up throwback to the disco era? Surely he wouldn't be useful politically. What would you use him for? A cozy, private concert for the two of you. Now, I remember how much you disliked him from when we were kids, so I can only assume that it was for the sake of your companion. A news crew interviewed him; I'll send you the link, it's very funny. He said it was 'the most English thing he'd ever seen.' Some snooty rich man in a suit and a woman half his age, holding hands and blushing. I never knew you had it in you. Well done. In all seriousness, Mycroft, really.”

Mycroft was taken aback by his brother's obvious sincerity. Like he was really pleased it was going so well. “Yes, well...thank you. Stop talking now before you ruin this, hmm?”

“So is there a future Mrs. Holmes in the cards?”

“What did I just say?” Mycroft muttered, hanging up and looking over at his...girlfriend? _Girlfriend?! Is that what she is now? My god, I have a girlfriend. What in the hell am I going to do now?_ He smiled tightly, feeling that strange fluttering in his stomach, trying his best to brush it aside and remind himself that nothing has changed. _Still...she said my name. She called me by name and liked it! Nobody's ever liked it before. What's the matter with her?_ He remembered her calling him handsome that night before the big state dinner, and while she hadn't said it that blatantly since, there was no mistaking the look on her face when she gazed at him. Her first shy confession that she liked him on her first day, feeling her hand slip into his last night...He felt like he was spinning. _Does not compute! None of these figures add up!_

“Mycroft? Darling?” Vesta ventured, looking at him with growing concern. He gasped, as though he'd just been splashed with cold water. “Are you all right?”

“I...can't do this,” he muttered, putting a hand over his face. “I can't, Vesta. I'm sorry.”

“Can't? Can't what?”

“Well...whatever this is. I don't know how.”

Vesta gave a breathy laugh at this, “Oh, and I do? Nobody's ever...done this to me. I've never felt this way for anyone, so I have just as little experience as you do.”

“Ah, but just because you don't have any experience, it doesn't mean you don't have any expectations. You've read books, seen it in films, you have some idea of what you think should happen now. I have no idea what you will want of me, so when I fail at this, and I will, horribly, it'll be all my fault and then...” Mycroft ended in a sigh, suddenly unable to imagine a worse fate. To have been given something so remarkable, to be so wonderfully happy and content, to lose it in such a way.

Moved to pity, she gazed across the table at him. It was so weird seeing this confident, powerful man looking so insecure. She stood, stepped beside his chair and knelt down beside him. She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek, gazing up at him lovingly.

He looked down at her, breathing heavily, giving a soft, longing sigh. She kissed his palm, his wrist, and he sprang away with surprising speed!

“Don't! Please don't. That—that...is that what's supposed to happen?”

“What's the matter?”

“That was...that was...that was...” he stammered, standing and pacing, keeping well away.

“Mycroft? I think your needle's stuck”

He stopped, looked up at her in surprise. “My needle?”

With a gentle titter, Vesta elaborated, “You sound like a broken record.”

In his mind, he heard glass breaking. She knows about records? She actually used the expression 'like a broken record'? Oddly, that minor thing made him creep back toward her. “Vesta...that felt...amazing. How...?”

“What, kissing?” He nodded, seriously. “Did you like it?”

He took a step back, still alarmed and wrong-footed. “Maybe my parents were wrong. Maybe we are too different. It's...it's like this. I can read your entire life through one touch of your hand. I know everything there is to know about you just by looking at you. You can't even imagine being able to do that, but it's a normal fact of life for me. It's how I am. Now...apply that to kissing, and you'll see why I can't. Why it's...upsetting.”

“Oh...come here,” she whispered. “Here...” Her soothing tone drew him back to her and they stood before each other once again. She reached up and touched his cheek. He gasped pleasurably, pressing against it. “It's all right. No kissing.”

“It was nice, just...can't handle more than one at a time.”

Vesta smiled, coaxing him to tip his head down to her. She brushed their foreheads together, getting another sensual groan from her rigid new boyfriend. He touched her cheek as well, nuzzling in. “I think we found our way around that. This can be kissing, darling,” she soothed.

“Mmm, maybe we can build up to it.”

“Yes.”

“You really don't mind? You don't think I'm...abnormal?”

Vesta giggled, “You're the most normal person I've met. It's been such a relief to be around you. You make me feel sane.”

“What, by comparison?” Mycroft asked, still feeling worried about his courtship capabilities.

“No, because you're like me.”

“Nobody's like me. Not...exactly. But...I think you're enough.” He drew her close and kissed her forehead, bracing against the shock this time. “Remarkable!”

“Come on, I have an idea,” Vesta murmured. “I saw it in a film once.”

Uncertain, yet eager to put his best foot forward, Mycroft haltingly agreed, “All right.”

It was a cool, cloudy day that threatened to rain at any minute. For two people such as these, it couldn't have been a lovelier day. True to their characters, they craved the shadows and mist, shrinking in the sun on the rare chance of it showing its face. They strolled out onto the grounds. There was a private wooded area just behind the house with a large pond or a small lake, filled with wild geese. As they walked, Mycroft swinging his umbrella cheerily, Vesta wondered if his habit wasn't more wishful thinking than general preparedness. His sign of optimism that maybe it will rain today, enshrouding the world in his beloved gloom. She took his free hand while a manservant followed close behind them. When they reached the pond's edge, he dumped the two-person row boat into the water with a splash. Vesta handed him both of their phones for safekeeping and he backed off into the background.

Mycroft eyed the vehicle doubtfully. Nervously, he licked his lips, then glanced at Vesta. She looked perfectly happy with today's prospects. She was wearing a loose cotton blouse, white with green accents around the sleeves and collar, and a pair of white linen capris. Mycroft stood beside her in a gray three-piece suit, as usual, leaning on his umbrella a bit more heavily than he ordinarily would. Vesta popped a life jacket over her clothes and took a seat in the little boat. Mycroft hovered near the water's edge...

“You have to put on the life jacket, I don't know how deep the water is.”

“We're only going out for a little while, nothing will happen, surely.”

“You never know. The water has a life of its own.”

“I'm not afraid of the water!” He snapped with unexpected vehemence!

“Nobody said you were,” Vesta answered mildly. _He's afraid of the water._

“Nor should they!” She watched him put on the life jacket and sit opposite her. He looked skittish.

They shoved off, Vesta was doing the rowing while Mycroft clung to the edges of the boat. With each sway, he gasped, trying not to look too nervous. After a while, he started to calm down. They were out in the middle and just content to float a bit. Most unwelcome, the sun was starting to peek out from the clouds as the wind blew them away. Mycroft opened his umbrella and propped it up behind Vesta. They grinned at each other, he took her hand again and stroked it experimentally. There was something strangely poignant about seeing her under his umbrella. Something that even he considered to be that much a part of him, sheltering her from the light of day. 

The symbolism of his simple act wasn't lost on Vesta, either. She gave a happy sigh. Unfortunately, life doesn't allow peaceful moments to remain so for long. At that moment, a large goose landed right along the side of the boat, making it wobble and sway. They only had another second's notice to realize what was about to happen when they tipped over into the water. Vesta caught the umbrella and closed it, holding it out for Mycroft to grab. He was flailing helplessly, choking and heaving. She switched ends, dragging at him with the handle. It caught around his shoulder and she towed him to their capsized boat. She helped him get up on top and they sat there, gasping for breath.

Mycroft stared wildly at the water, wiping his face and tossing his hair. He muttered something that Vesta couldn't make out.

“What?”

“Can't...swim. I can't...never learned to swim.”

“You agreed to get out on a boat with me on the water when you don't know how to swim??”

“I hate the water,” he groaned, already sounding as though he'd caught cold. “Hate, hate hate it. I did it because I thought you'd enjoy it. I was...starting to myself, actually. Then...” he shuddered.

Vesta giggled, “Well, we survived. That wasn't so bad,” she remarked, trying to put a positive face on it. She wrung out her shirt and hair.

“You...” Mycroft sniggered, pointing, “You look like a drowned rat.”

She splashed him with a playful glare. “Well, who went overboard in a dress suit and wingtip shoes? You probably soaked up half the pond into your clothes! You know, for a genius, you really are an idiot sometimes!”

Mycroft accepted this scolding with an indignant scowl. Luckily, the oars hadn't floated too far away from the boat. They each caught one and paddled back to shore.

“Now aren't you glad I gave our phones to Alistair?”

Later, after they changed out of their wet clothes, they sat together in the library in front of the fireplace. Both of them had large mugs of steaming herbal tea. Mycroft kept looking over at her, unable to fathom why she was so impossibly cheerful. 

“I had fun today. Thank you, Mycroft,” she said between sniffles.

She still sounded as though she couldn't get enough of saying his name. “Yes, well...good. I suppose we can try again sometime.”

“After you learn to swim.”

“I'm fifty years old, Vesta, I don't think that's very likely.”

The way he looked at her when he said that made her wonder what was getting him down. “I wish you didn't worry so much.”

“Worry? What am I worried about?” He scoffed with a falsely confident tone.

“Us,” Vesta answered simply. “I heard the way you said that, like your age has anything to do with...anything. So you're older than me, that's not a problem. You're different from any other man I've met, and I love that. You have a weird relationship with food, and so do I. You're light-years ahead of me, IQ-wise, and I have no problem with that. I don't love you in spite of those things, I love you because of them. You're Mycroft Holmes, you're one of a kind. I think you're wonderful. And, my god, you're gorgeous!” Mycroft scoffed loudly at that, surprised to see her face was set in ardent admiration. He scowled, fidgeting. Her honesty was clear in her face, but for the life of him he couldn't see how. He presented himself as well as he could, dressing impeccably to strike an impressive pose. Still, no one would mistake him for “gorgeous.” She tapped his shoulder, “You know what I think?”

“I'm sure you're going to share it, whether I ask you to or not.”

“I think you're so used to not being liked that this seriously breaks your brain. You're not used to hearing or thinking nice things about yourself.”

“Oh, please,” he grumbled, blowing his nose. “I'm not that modest or insecure.”

“I don't just mean the obvious, like how brilliant or well-connected you are. You're not used to having someone think that you're a good person.”

He looked down into his mug thoughtfully. “Am I really?”

“I think so. You're not nice, you're a total bastard to be honest, but you're not as bad as you think you are.” 

He didn't answer, just looked at her and touched her hand. “I...don't know what you want me to do now.”

Vesta smiled and scooted closer. “Hold me.”

“Why?”

“Because it's nice.”

Mycroft thought about this before asking, “All right, how?”

Vesta scooted even closer, draping a leg over his lap, looping her arms around his neck and shoulders. “Just put your arms around me.” He obeyed. They sat there, enjoying their first cuddle, watching the fire. All was well.

 

It may have been fortunate for them that neither had any experience in love before. They didn't know how they were supposed to act in a relationship, and so they found that not much changed. For two creatures of habit who clung tight to the familiar, this brought a sense of security to them both. Mycroft gradually started being more physically engaging, despite getting overwhelmed with sensory overload at times. Vesta tried to be as understanding and accommodating as she could in that regard. She'd never imagined such a cold, distant man to be so sensitive! Holding hands with him had become unbearably sexy to her, especially when it was laden with meanings associated with more intimate touch. Their midnight snacking was instantly recognized as a sexual act, as it had been from the start. As long as they'd been an “official” couple, they still hadn't been physically intimate. Neither of them seemed to mind or even consider it an issue. They were more than content with their relationship. They were certain that no couple on Earth enjoyed a relationship quite like theirs. They wouldn't have it any other way. Let the humans have their normal courtship rituals! They were both comfortably weird enough to be above such matters!

In every other sense, it was business as usual. They could blend their personal and working relationship without much trouble. It carried over well, actually. They were both so socially maladjusted that they would have discussed political intrigue and webs of plots over dinner anyway. Their idea of a good time was posturing threats to people who needed to be kept in line. They'd end up hanging up the phone, sniggering like a couple of kids doing prank calls. Points were awarded for the best remarks of the evening. 

One morning while they were in their office, Mycroft sauntered by Vesta's desk and dropped something in front of her with a _plink._ A small medallion, a lapel pin done in silver and brass, ornamented by a single star.

“One year of service,” he explained with a silky smile. She grinned up at him and pinned it to her jacket. “How time flies.”

Vesta nodded. It had been a whole year since she started this strange, wonderful job. It struck her with an odd pang when she realized that she hadn't given her old life a second thought in that time. She had no friends, no family, nothing to bind her or call her back to that life. This was where she belonged, this was home.

Mycroft remembered giving Anthea a similar pin. She'd taken it with a faint look of regret, as though it reminded her of what she had lost in the transition. In the following years, she grew to enjoy her job and love her boss, but thinking about it now made him wonder if she'd developed a touch of Stockholm Syndrome. He hoped not.

The day dragged on, and by noon the two of them were nursing headaches. Vesta meandered behind her boss and rubbed his shoulders and neck, seeming to get equal pleasure from the gesture as he did. “I cleared up your afternoon. You're busy,” she murmured, patting his back.

“Thank you,” he sighed, cupping his face in one hand, reaching over his shoulder to take hers, giving it a pat.

“No problem, Chief. Now lie down and rest. Go visit your club, do something to relax.”

“Yes, I just might. Thank you. I'll text you when I'm on the way back.” He stood, looked at her with a tight smile, then bent down and kissed her cheek. “You rest up, too. All work and no play, you know.”

Vesta smiled warmly, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Then, with a twirl of his umbrella, he strolled out the door.


	7. Winging It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes that's all you can do

As he was driven into town, Mycroft was deep in thought. He and Vesta had been “together” for six months now. He wouldn't call it dating, because they didn't go out on dates, he didn't think of her as his girlfriend or himself as her boyfriend, because they both thought such titles sounded rather juvenile. She was his, though, and he was hers. While they hadn't yet shared a bed, he was certain that they were as close and comfortable as any normal couple could be. The thought gave him a fluttering feeling. He saw an upscale ladies' boutique out his window and ordered the driver to stop. He had an idea...

 

Twenty minutes later, he came out with a pale blue shopping bag. He left his purchase with the driver and made tracks for the Diogenes Club. He fell like a tree into an open chair and slouched down. He was served tea and cookies which refreshed and revived him. He imagined what Vesta would think of this place. For a brief instant, he regretted the gentlemen-only designation of the club.

Mycroft reclined, letting his eyes drift closed in thought. He was planning something that was highly intricate. A miscue would be disastrous, but no matter how he envisioned it panning out, through the numerous possibilities, he could not think of a good way to go about it. Thinking about it just made him worry, and that was the last thing he needed to do right now. Vesta could always tell when he was worried about something. He gave the most audible sigh allowed within these walls, wishing a solution would open up to him. He thought of asking Sherlock, or more realistically, asking John about this. Women were never his brother's field of study. He shrugged to himself and shot off a text to Dr. Watson. A few minutes later, his screen lit up with a reply:

_Good luck!_

Scowling at the screen, he replied.

_Is that all you can say? --MH_

_Not much else I can say. You'll just have to wing it. It'll be on the evening news either way, I imagine._

He rolled his eyes in disgust at the lack of help. Laying his umbrella across his lap, Mycroft stroked it thoughtfully. Doubt began to creep up on him. _What the hell am I even doing? What the hell are we doing? We can't...we're not people! I...I don't know what we are, but..._ Then, thoughts of his parents crept in. He almost shrank away from them, feeling like a failure. Finally, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for this. _John's right. I just need to go in and improvise. Hope for the best._

He stalked out decisively, called his driver back, and soon was on the way home. He saw Vesta camped out in the library by the fireplace. He walked in, gazing down at her, wondering what he was about to say.

“Uh, Vesta, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about.”

“Yes?” She stood up, he offered his hand to her automatically and helped pull her up. It didn't escape her notice that he looked terrible. “Mycroft, are you all right?”

“I, uh, don't know exactly. I...oh I hate this, I really...Look, this isn't easy for me to do, to say, but...it must be done. It must be...said.”

This struck her as rather ominous. He looked positively ill. She thought back to when she cleared his schedule and sent him out, he'd actually kissed her on the cheek, promising he'd let her know when he was on the way home. He never did that before. Now he was acting as though...as though he was never going to see her again.

“You've been here a year now,” Mycroft began anew. “And...in that time, our involvement with each other has...altered, grown...grown beyond my imaginings. If someone would have told me a year ago that this would be the end result of my hiring you, I never would have believed it. It's ridiculous! Just absolutely...what the hell am I doing? What are either of us doing?! I can't work it out. It makes no sense why any of this happened in the first place!”

 _This is one hell of a performance review_ , Vesta thought to herself, a bad feeling settling in her stomach. She watched him pace, black umbrella in his hand, as usual. She watched him until she was dizzy. He stalked up to her again, teeth bared in a snarl.

“This is hard, this is...very hard. It's the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. I wish I didn't have to do this, Vesta, I really do. Why does it have to be so hard?! Here, just...here!” He thrust the umbrella in her hands.

She flung it down on the sofa, eyes locked on her boss. “Listen, I don't know what you're playing at--”

“I only wish to...alter our relationship agreement. Our...parameters. Your employment status as well, in all likelihood.”

“You waited until I was with you a year before sacking me? What would you leave me with, Mycroft?! I have nothing! You took it all from me on my very first day! Now, what? Ending it? Throwing me out in the streets?” She, too, prowled intensely around the room, skirting the furniture and the man in the middle of it all. Despite her anger, she looked bereft, broken...defeated. “God, what did you do it for?” She turned to storm out of the room when he caught her arm and dragged her back.

“Don't!” He gasped, shaking his head. “Don't.” He bent down and picked the umbrella back up, placed it in her hands again. “Look, just look...and give me an answer.”

Vesta looked down at it, realizing it wasn't his after all. It was brand-new. The handle was black and polished to a pearly sheen. She turned it in her hands and saw the other side of the handle. There, set in diamonds, in beautifully curvy letters, it was monogrammed VH. Her jaw dropped and she looked back at Mycroft, who was now down on one knee. He looked very uncomfortable.

 

Her eyes flew open wide and she drew a shuddering breath. “Mycroft, do you mean it?”

He nodded, gulping. “Well?”

In that instant, she forgot how sensitive he was to human contact. She struck his shoulder lightly, whispering, “Oh, you bastard!” Then she bent down and kissed him on the mouth.

“Mmm!” He gasped as his brain short-circuited through the sudden input. _Blood type O positive, Capricorn, public school, had braces in 1993, no drug history, natural redhead, Type 2 diabetes on her father's side...she loves me!_ “May I...may I take that as a yes?”

“Yes,” she breathed tearfully. “Get up, you idiot. Damn you! Oh, god, I thought...!”

“I told you I'd be bad at this,” he explained as he stood, brushing himself off.

 

Meanwhile, at John and Mary's flat, they were crowded around Sherlock's laptop screen, the three of them clapped when they saw the couple embrace.

“When and how did you have Mycroft's place bugged?” Mary asked.

“There's just the one, and that just made it count!” Sherlock answered, hugging John tightly. “I did it after the David Cassidy incident. I had to see what those two got up to. I bribed the electrician to plant it for me. He owed me a favor. It's all about knowing the right people.”

“I think you're more like your brother than you care to admit,” John observed. “Congratulations, mate, you're getting another sister-in-law.”

“Oh, don't worry, Mary, you'll always be my favorite,” Sherlock purred, giving her a hug now as well. “Tell you what, let's drop in on the happy couple. I bet they'd be thrilled. Molly can watch the baby, she said to call her any time.”

The Watsons looked at each other, wondering if this was in fact a good idea. They doubted very much that either party would be 'thrilled' by their visit at this hour. Besides, they might be...busy.

“Oh, come on!” Sherlock whined. “All right, we'll go tomorrow, then. Don't want to disturb them, after all,” he added in a parody of consideration. Still, this sounded better than barging in on them immediately. “John, you've seen more of her than the rest of us have. What in the world would drive her into the arms of my brother?”

John leaned back into the sofa, stroking his wife's leg. “You remember what she was like when he first hired her?”

“Bit dull, I thought, of course he hardly let her get a word in,” Sherlock recalled.

“Well, once she starts talking, she sounds a lot like him. Of course, she's infuriatingly vague, I think Mycroft made it out to be some sort of game, see if she can annoy me.”

“Oh, that's a fun one. I'm good at that game.”

Thinking hard about this, trying to remember anything significant, John continued, “I think they're good for each other. Both of them have been pretty much alone for a long time. Meeting someone who's similarly...off--”

“That's being diplomatic,” Sherlock put in, getting a swat from Mary.

“I mean, that's the important thing, isn't it? In a relationship? That you can...be yourselves with each other?”

Still, the detective was befuddled. “But I've seen them! They never do anything! Aren't couples supposed to...I don't know. All they do is sit together holding hands. Sometimes they look at each other! Mary, you're a woman--”

“Oh, well spotted. No wonder you're a detective.”

“You and John don't just sit at home staring at the floor, touching hands and grinning inanely, do you?”

“Give them a break, Sherlock. They're both new at this. You said so yourself that you don't go in for all that love nonsense. Neither did your brother until now. He's learning, and so is she. If that's what's comfortable for them, I don't see anything wrong. Besides, that's what they do in the library. Maybe they save other stuff for...other rooms in the house?”

“I've just never seen him like that. He looks happy. And he didn't even start a war or anything! Sometimes he just completely ignores her, sits there and reads while she rubs his shoulders or brings him things. Either that or they're just sitting there staring at their phone screens.”

John shook his head, finding it a bit rich that his unsociable friend was offering commentary on other peoples' love lives. “Who are we to judge, really? What's normal, anyway? Look at us for Pete's sake. Besides, he's still her boss. They could be working when you're playing peeping Tom.”

Sherlock had gone back to staring at his screen in disbelief, watching Vesta cuddle up to his brother as though it was the best feeling in the world. The two of them were standing in the middle of the room, hugging, touching, petting...He shut the laptop in disgust. “Maybe she's blind or suffered a blow to the head or something.”

“He had that theory, too, actually,” John chuckled. “Asked me to examine her. Couldn't work out why she kept staring at him, saying how...how _gorgeous_ he is. I mean, it's a matter of taste, I guess. I can't imagine he'd get too many ladies' motors running, but who knows? That kind of embarrassed her. They didn't exactly have a fight over that, but...bit of a spat. She told him that for a megalomaniac he had an awfully low opinion of himself.”

“It just means there's someone for everyone. I haven't even met her yet, but she sounds nice,” Mary added. “Maybe she's a bit like you, John. Able to see the loveable parts of a person even when it's hard for others to see.”

John smiled at this, put his arm around his wife and pulled her in for a kiss. “You're all loveable parts.”

“I did shoot your best friend,” she reminded him in a whisper.

“And I forgave you for that,” he whispered back.

“How many sane people would?”

Sherlock grimaced at his friends making googly eyes at each other, rubbing noses and giggling idiotically. “God, I hope that never happens to me,” he grumbled, glad to be a perennial bachelor. “Now even my own brother has jumped ship. Maybe I should just get a pet. Start talking to plants or something.”

“Come off it, you're too young to go completely strange,” John told him, extricating himself for the sake of his friend's sanity. Still, Sherlock looked sulkily betrayed. Everyone around him was pairing off and leaving him behind. “Maybe you'll be his best man,” John suggested, giving him a nudge.

“Don't expect me to prevent a murder on his account. I don't do that for just anyone.”

“Glad we made the list,” Mary said, giving her unofficial brother-in-law another swat.

 

That night after dinner, Mycroft and Vesta stared at each other across the table. They'd just gotten engaged, they were getting married, and they had no idea how they were supposed to handle this.

“You know, Mycroft, this whole...business could have been an interesting study. Two people with no real knowledge or experience in social matters wending their way through milestones visited by more connected people.”

“Thinking of going to press?”

Vesta sipped her wine, smirking, “I've thought about it. I think we've done all right, considering we haven't a clue between us.”

He leaned back, just quietly regarding her. “I love it when you look like you're up to something,” he announced. It was the first time he'd even uttered the “l” word. It made Vesta choke and splutter, but determined to swallow. No sense in wasting a good 2010, even at the risk of asphyxiation. Mycroft paused over it as well. “I, uh...I...love you,” he managed with a deep breath. “There, now don't expect me to say it every day.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, dear.”

To speed his recovery, he poured himself another glass, pausing to swirl and sniff deeply. He then noticed his fiancee was giving him a strange look. “What?”

“God, I envy you,” she sighed

“You envy me,” he repeated. Mycroft was used to being envied by people, for his fabulous wealth, his genius, his connections and influence...but none of those things seemed to matter to his lovely assistant. “Why?”

“That nose. I can't even imagine what it can pick up.” She was actually leaning over the table, gazing admiringly at him.

By now, Mycroft had accepted that he was somehow attractive to the girl, but nothing could have prepared him to hear that! He gave her a sarcastic smile, running a finger around the rim of his glass, making it sing. “You envy me...because of my nose.”

“Yes. You can do amazing things with it,” she added with a cheeky grin. That halting way he'd nuzzle her neck and face before kissing, like he was testing the waters before diving in, got her hot under the collar every time. Just thinking about it made her squirm in her seat.

“You're brain-damaged.”

“And you're beautiful.”

“I rest my case.” He looked up at her again, surprised to see her looking flushed and _ready_. “Are you...suggesting that perhaps...we ought to...” He glanced down beside the table where their umbrellas lay suggestively together, “cement our contractual agreement?”

Vesta giggled, “Come on. I'll get into my signing clothes.” She stood, giving him a kiss on the top of his head and skipped up the stairs. A second later, he rose as well, following after her.

When he got up to her room, he found the lights turned down to set the mood. Soft music played from her tablet, and she was lying on the bed in a lace-trimmed nightgown. Mycroft took one look at his fiancee and blanched, turning back around. She knelt up in bed and grabbed his shoulder, turning him back around to face her.

“Like it?”

He couldn't remember being affected by a human body before, male or female. It had never been on his primary list of concerns. Seeing her now, looking so happy and... _healthy_ , made his mind go completely blank.

“Let's see you now,” she coaxed, loosening his tie for him. Slowly, he undressed. As each layer came off, anticipation built in Vesta's eyes. When he finally stood before her wearing nothing but black boxer-briefs, he looked down at himself, rather ashamed of his figure. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror with disgust.

He patted a hand to his stomach and muttered, “I've really let myself go.”

It was therefore totally unexpected that Vesta let out a prolonged gasp of delight. Their feeding habit had definitely shown up on his pale frame, he had an adorably protruding tummy that matched her own bit of pudge that their cake fetish had brought on. It was by no means unattractive. She rolled over on her stomach, reaching under the bed, and came up with a long ostrich feather. She waved it at him teasingly, just brushing his pale belly. He gave an uncharacteristic shriek of laughter and snatched it out of her hand, turning it on her to her throes of ecstasy. Not one to give up the upper hand so easily, she drew her fingers lightly up his soft body, pinching here and there where she could. Vesta kicked out at him, aiming to miss of course, Mycroft caught her foot with a soft growl, drawing the feather up her leg, enjoying her laughter. She kicked and squealed and shrieked for help, while at the same time telling him not to stop. 

She seized him around the middle, pulling him down on top of her as she groaned pleasurably. Mycroft pushed himself up so he wasn't actually lying on her, but Vesta struggled back, bumping against him softly. “I love your tummy,” she purred, tickling it tauntingly. She gave it a kiss, growling throatily. “That...is how much I love you.” She pushed him back against the head of the bed, onto her heap of pillows and crawled on top of him, rubbing against him silkily, sultrily. He placed his hands around her bottom, holding her against him while she kissed his chest.

“If you want to get thin again, though, that's fine,” she added, draping herself against him with her arms around his neck.

Mycroft drew his hands down his fiancee's pleasantly plump rear, stroking the backs of her legs. “Vesta? What if...what if I don't feel up to...performing?” He actually looked repulsed by the idea.

“Mmm, look how much I care about that.” She gave him a kiss on the neck, bringing her arms down around his chest, pressing their soft tummies together. Mycroft felt a warm wetness slide down her legs. They lay together, feeling perfectly lazy and content. As far as they were concerned, they'd consummated. If they ever manage it “for real”, it wouldn't make any difference to their minds.

“I don't even think I want to,” Mycroft confessed, just enjoying the feeling of having her lie on him

“Me neither.”

“Do you think we were born like this, or do you think we're a product of our circumstances?”

Vesta lifted her head and ran her fingers through his hair. “That we're effectively male/female neuters? Well, we've never been attracted to anyone else before, we have no real drive to go any further. I'm happy being just like this. You're wonderful.”

He buried his prominent nose in her neck, breathing deeply, “You smell so good.”

She giggled as he nuzzled her, “Told you.”

“Mmm, you're delicious. What on Earth could be better than this?”

Vesta coaxed them over so they were lying on their sides, and pulled a sheet up over them. Mycroft turned off the light and wrapped his arms around her. They murmured their good-nights and dozed off together.


	8. The End

The next morning, Vesta woke up cozily, still snuggled against her fiance. Mycroft woke up moments later, groaning slightly. His arm was trapped and had gone numb. Carefully, he pulled it out from under her and flexed his fingers, shaking them out to get some feeling back. He gazed at Vesta, relishing her warmth as it was pressed against him. He smiled sleepily, seeing little observations orbiting around her. _Originally left-handed, likes jazz, favorite Beatle...George, claustrophobic, uses “Sound of Music” as a unit of time, kills plants._

Playfully sleepy, Vesta found the feather in the covers, reached over behind her, and wiggled it in Mycroft's face. He sputtered and brushed it away. She did it again, giggling coaxingly. He sneezed and snatched it away, laying it on the nightstand. “Later,” he muttered, kissing the back of her neck. She whined a little, but agreed by default, sitting up and sliding out of bed. Crossing to his side of the bed on the way to the bathroom, she stroked Mycroft's back and whispered, “It's seven o'clock, time to get up.”

He grunted softly and rose as well. He'd just slept better than he could remember sleeping in a long time. He stretched, popping his back, and trudged back to his room to start the day.

Half an hour later, a slightly belated breakfast was served to them downstairs. Vesta already had her umbrella hooked over her end of the table just like Mycroft did. She scrolled through her phone, skimming emails and text messages, placidly responding to them in turn and coordinating her boss's calendar. She tossed it aside with a pert little pout and announced, “Done.”

Sliding her a cup of coffee, Mycroft commented, “Nothing like a hard day's work, hmm?”

“I'm just the ringmaster, let the clowns and the trapeze artists do the actual work. And don't get me started on the sideshow freaks.” They exchanged comfortable sniggers.

“I'll send them your regards, shall I?” Mycroft offered, getting a mocking salute in return. They fell into a comfortable silence as they finished up. Then, together, they rose from the table, taking their umbrellas in hand in perfect synchronization. He gazed down at her, brushing her cheek. “Call if you need anything. I'm off to sell tickets to the circus.”

“There's one born every minute,” she replied with a wink. “Get every one of them.”

“And what will you do all day?”

“Oh, I have a few irons in the fire.”

As soon as the door closed, Vesta sank down into the couch. She whipped her phone back out with a definite “up to something” look.

 

Her car pulled up to the agreed-upon location and she breezed into the cafe. Sherlock, John, and Mary had assembled there already and were eager to assist in this unique matter.

 

Sherlock wasted no time with pleasantries. “So? Data, now! Inquiring minds want to know!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what in the hell possessed the two of you to want to get married? I've known Mycroft all my life and he's never been remotely like this. He's actually looked happy! What do the two of you get up to?”

Vesta settled coolly into a chair, taken aback by his forwardness. “That's really none of your business!” A waitress hurried past, holding up a finger, signaling that she'd be right there. Vesta did a double-take before brushing it off, turning back to face the trio in front of her.

Sherlock pulled back just a bit, “Just curious,” he shrugged flippantly. “I mean, he keeps you squirreled away at his fortress half the time.”

The Watsons rolled their eyes and shook their heads in unison, muttering that they couldn't take him anywhere. 

Sticking to what's familiar, Vesta turned her gaze first to John. She smiled at him and got one in return. “How've you been, Doctor? It's been a while since Mycroft's needed to get your attention.”

“Good, quite good. We've, ah, got a baby now. A girl. She's been keeping us busy.”

“Nice,” she muttered, feigning interest, realizing that she really just wanted to get down to business. “Listen, I'm no good small talk. Sherlock, sorry, but you're not getting any dirt on your brother through me. I called you in because I need a hand navigating this whole engagement business. You all seem to have had more experience in these matters than Mycroft or I.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the waitress returning. Again, Vesta's eyes fell on her and she blanched. The others all put in their drink orders while Vesta recovered. “Double espresso macchiatto, please,” she murmured, “with chocolate shavings.”

The waitress flounced away, scribbling everything down. Mary leaned across the table. “You knew her?” she murmured in a discreet undertone. Vesta nodded. “I don't think she recognized you.”

“No, she didn't,” she replied, looking depressed, as though this meant that the old her was really dead. “Her name's Angela. We were sort of friends back at my last job. She had the desk next to mine. She hated it, though. She needed to be around people.”

Shaking off the shock, Vesta gazed over at Sherlock, testing her own observational skills. What she saw amused her, she let her shields down a bit and gave him an endearing look. “Oh, now that's sweet. Underneath all that, you're concerned about your big brother.” Sherlock flinched hard, glaring at her suggestion. “You are so like him it's scary, you know.”

“No, I'm not,” he denied angrily. “I'm not remotely like him and I'm _definitely_ not worried about him!”

“You are. The best of both of you is the same. Probably why I can see it on you. You both act like you can't stand each other, but woe betide the one who messes with your brother. From all he tells me about you, it makes me wish I had a brother. I don't think I want to know what he'd do if anyone 'interfered' with any of you. He loves you, Sherlock.”

The hardness fell away from the man's face. He looked younger, innocent... “He does?”

Vesta nodded. “He's so proud of you.”

“You're joking.” He can read the sincerity on her plainly, though. It hit him hard; the last things he'd ever expected to hear about Mycroft, shot out in quick succession in perfect honesty. “Excuse me, I...I need to send a text.” Sherlock whipped out his phone

_M, Look, I don't hate you. --S_

 

Mycroft heard the beep in the car and took out his phone to read it. His reaction to this pronouncement was much like Sherlock's. His expression reflected a revelation the like of which he'd never suspected. It was the closest thing to “I love you” or even “I'm glad you're my brother” that he'd ever had. It nearly broke him when he considered that that's what he actually meant, in their own maladjusted ways. He stroked the screen, wondering what his fiancee had said to him to provoke that. It had to have been her, he knew that much.

 

Once he put away his phone, Sherlock pulled himself together and looked as though nothing alarming had just been revealed to him. Their drinks were brought to them in the meantime. Before he could say another word, his best friend proved that he knew him too well. He grabbed him by the arm and sternly reminded him:

“No slights against his manhood, no making fun of his umbrella, no fat jokes.”

This last one actually got Vesta's attention, “Fat jokes? Is that part of your usual repartee?”

“Oh, sure. Since we were kids,” Sherlock admitted remorselessly. “He was always the porker of the family.”

She thought of how upset he had been last night about seeing his body in the mirror. To find that her future brother-in-law was behind Mycroft's poor body image cooled her toward him. “I think he looks fine.” Her tone was quiet and understated, but none of them could miss how clearly angry she was at him. John and Mary glared at Sherlock as well, closing in from either side.

“All right, all right. I'm sure he's perfectly scrumptious,” he growled distastefully, rolling his eyes the whole time.

“I happen to think he is,” Vesta replied, relishing the uncomfortable look on the detective's face as she sipped her espresso.

“Well, I'm happy for you both,” John put in. “Everybody needs somebody. Even Mycroft.” They exchanged grins over this, both of them knew that there wasn't anything malicious meant in his remark. It was simply the truth. He'd spent enough time with the formidable man and his assistant to know that they weren't shy about being different, and it was obvious at least to him where the attraction was. Mycroft Holmes wasn't conventionally handsome, and Vesta was unremarkable enough, but love was a great beautifier.

“Look, I know Mycroft isn't exactly Prince Charming, but that's not what I would have wanted. He is. I certainly wouldn't have gotten on with someone with conventional social skills or the normally-accepted moral compass. Our misanthropy is what drew us to each other, oddly enough. It's like we were waiting for each other all this time.”

Desperate to find something above-the-belt to dig into his brother about, Sherlock muttered, “Well, if he ever asks you where you were all his life, the honest answer would be 'not born yet.'”

Rather than disturbed or annoyed by this, Vesta just sighed to herself. “I wish I'd known him earlier, I feel like I've missed him my whole life. Even if I somehow could have known what was ahead. Just to know there was someone out there waiting for me; that I would have someone in my future. I'm just so glad it's him.”

“Aww,” Mary cooed involuntarily. “So, what kinds of things do you do together? I mean...I'd say Mycroft is a bit...taciturn. How does he show you he cares?”

“We, uh, go down into the kitchen in the middle of the night and feed each other cake. Something tells me that's not how most couples do it, though. Look...John, Mary, you've done this before. What happens now?”

“Now that explains it,” Sherlock remarked as he sipped his coffee. “I noticed a little while after you started working for him he was putting on weight again. I figured he was in love then. Took him long enough to realize it.”

John scoffed lightly and turned to Vesta. “I'd say, whatever you're doing, keep it up. Nothing dramatic has to change just because you're engaged.”

“Oh, it helps if you pull him out of a blazing pyre at some point, though,” Mary added helpfully.

“I'll keep that in mind. Yeah, we sort of have a routine, I don't think he'd want to shake things up.”

“Have you set a date yet?” John asked.

Vesta spun her umbrella in her hand. “Well, he just proposed to me with this last night. We've only been engaged for twelve hours. Dates haven't come up yet.”

“Well, it's a good idea to start planning right from the start,” Mary advised. “Don't get him involved until the last couple of days. I don't care if he is 'the British government', he's not going to want to be involved with wedding stuff. Grooms are rubbish at that. Oh, sorry, John.” John waved it aside, it clearly didn't matter to him. He would have been the first to agree. Mary and Sherlock had been his team of planners.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose with a fluttering hand gesture, “They're not going to want a real wedding! Can you imagine it? Flower arrangements and bridesmaid dresses, all that? Mycroft hates people! He'd require level ten clearance for anyone to get within a mile of the place. He's got no amiable contacts outside of work, and you're a recluse with no family...” he trailed off, looking at John and Mary, stricken with deja vu. He smiled and raised his mug broadly. “Welcome aboard, you should fit right in.”

“Thanks; I think I will, too. I don't want a big wedding, either. I could handle just doing it at the courthouse or something. Something simple.”

The three conspirators nodded in agreement. Vesta looked relieved that there wasn't any important step she was missing. That they could continue being as unorthodox as they liked and doing what felt comfortable.

About the same time that the four of them dispersed and headed in their own different directions, Mycroft got a series of texts from Sherlock and his friends, all bearing a similar message:

_She's crazy about you. Don't lose her!_

Mycroft read this advice with a wicked chuckle, replying to each one, _I don't intend to._

 

One month later, he was requested to present at another grand state affair. Thankfully, this time, dinner was free of emergencies. Mycroft and Vesta exchanged knowing smirks over this. He had been right, this one wasn't nearly as frightening as the first. Being out among so many strange people still wasn't fun, but who could feel morbidly afraid with the most powerful man in the country at her side? Mycroft's powers of perception were in fine form that night; in the few moments when Vesta became momentarily overcome with nerves, he held her hand under the table, soothing and securing her. He would never admit it out loud, but it was as much for his benefit as it was for hers. Another satisfying difference was being introduced as his fiancee. Vesta still got flutters from hearing it. Mycroft endured a fair bit of teasing from the other attendees, having been written off as a confirmed peculiar bachelor at that point. Many voiced surprise that he was marrying a woman. As they exited the building at the end of the night and got in their car, they didn't realize they were being followed. It was such a special occasion, Vesta had gotten him to agree to rent a limousine. They sat facing each other, grandly toasting their success. As they joined into a steady stream of traffic, the car marking them pulled along to the left side, rolled the window down...

Out of the corner of her eye, Vesta caught a glimpse of the barrel of a gun. “Mycroft, look out!” she shouted, shoving his head and shoulders between his knees, leaning forward against him. A gun fired, the car sped away, Vesta cried out in pain and lay across the seat.

It took Mycroft a second to realize, but he saw the broken glass, the hole torn through his fiancee's dress, heard her moans and shuddering sobs...

“No!” He cried desperately. Then he turned to the driver. “Take us to the nearest hospital.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.” As he turned a sharp corner, he also took the liberty of calling ahead. After the emergency room was alerted, he also called Sherlock, figuring his employer could use the moral support.

“Don't...don't you leave me, is that clear?! I've not released you from my services yet for one thing! Stay with me!” Mycroft commanded as his mind went up like a wildfire: he saw her dying on a gurney, saw himself being taken home in a state of shell-shocked grief, a pale green stone accompanying the purple one on his watch...he covered his face in his hands before clasping Vesta's again.

She smiled weakly, making a choking sound in her throat, like she'd gotten the wind knocked out of her. “Here, Chief. Haven't...resigned my post yet.”

They pulled in to the front doors of the emergency room, medics had to drag Mycroft away while they lay their patient on a stretcher. As she was being wheeled in, a cab drove up and out came Sherlock.

“What happened?” he asked, following along with them as Vesta was rushed in.

“She...she...” Mycroft muttered speechlessly. He cleared his throat, hoping to keep his voice even. “She was shot. She might be bleeding internally. No exit wound. She's...going to die,” he uttered in a low voice. Blindly, he filled out the necessary forms to check her in, and the Holmes brothers went to sit in the waiting room. Neither of them knew what to say. Sherlock had never seen his brother so upset. He couldn't even think of a comfortably acid remark to make to lighten the mood.

“Her dress came back today, alterations were finished. She wouldn't let me see her try it on because it it's bad luck. Stupid girl. So stupid. Neither of us even wanted a real wedding but she at least had to have the dress. So stupid.” Once again, he was assailed by horrible visions, wracked with nausea and vertigo, until he had to make a dash for the men's room to settle down.

While he was in there, a nurse came up to Sherlock. “You came in with the gunshot victim? The woman in the blue dress?”

“Um, yes?” He gulped, looking over his shoulder for Mycroft, wishing he'd hurry out. It didn't seem right to hear of her passing before him. “Is it over?”

“Sir? You may see her now.”

_See her? Why would I want to see her? I see plenty of dead bodies in my line of work. No need to add people I actually know to the list!_ Still, he followed her into a curtained-off room...

 

Mycroft stood at the sink, washing up, trying to keep the cold horrors from taking hold again. His phone beeped with a text alert. 

_Mithril –S_

He stared, hardly knowing what to make of it, hardly daring to believe...but it was one of Sherlock's recognizable codes. He emerged, barely seeing where he was going. Sherlock drew him in and they stood over Vesta's hospital bed.

“Got the message?”

“Yes. Armor. Hidden armor. She...had Kevlar on under that?!” Mycroft gasped, pointing at the shorn remains of the dress she'd had on. Pity they had to cut it off of her, but it was replaceable.

Vesta stirred, giving a light moan. Her pain seemed diminished, though, since she'd been tended to. She smiled mutely up at her beloved, reaching a hand for him. Mycroft took her hand between his, utterly speechless. “Humans,” she grumbled, wincing a little. While her injury was thankfully superficial, it was still very sore where it had hit. It had raised a large, tender-looking welt on her side.

He broke into a light laugh, “Yes, those damned humans.”

“You all right, Chief?”

“Fine, fine. Who in the hell told you to take a bullet for me?”

She shrugged, grinning at him, enjoying the morphine. “I did,” she answered before dozing off.

The doctor looked at her notes and couldn't help smiling at the positive outcome. “She's going to be just fine. She'll just need a few days off work. No heavy lifting, plenty of rest, and if there are any complications, just bring her back in.

Mycroft threw himself down into an adjacent seat, dumbfounded. “What in the world made her wear body armor under an evening gown?”

“Well, after what happened...to Anthea,” Sherlock reminded him delicately, being uncharacteristically tactful for once. “Maybe she thought it best to be prepared. She knew that you were a potential target. You keep a low enough profile over-all but on nights like this... Look, I'm...glad she's okay.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“See you at the wedding.”

“Do try to behave. At least remember to wear clothes.”

“You're no help at all, either, you're not even registered anywhere,” Sherlock pretended to complain. “I know, I'll bring the cake.” He smirked, testing his brother out to see if he stepped over the line yet. “Might not be necessary, I know.” Sherlock glanced significantly at Mycroft's figure. “I can tell she loves you.” He then stood, patted his shoulder briskly, and breezed out without a care, leaving Mycroft with the feeling that a headache was coming on.

“Thanks for coming, Sherlock.”

 

After that alarming incident, the pair of unlikely lovebirds were reminded that life was short. Vesta recovered from her wound, although she didn't follow doctor's orders to take time off. She pointed out that her job wasn't tiring or strenuous enough to count as actual work. Still, she lay in bed, conducting business while in her pj's through her phone. They were married a week later in their home. It was all quite simple and perfect for the two markedly unsocial people. Only a smattering of the people they knew and trusted were invited. Naturally, Mycroft's parents immediately took Vesta to their hearts as the daughter they never had. As they had with Mary, they wondered aloud if she was “the sane one.” A mantle which she reluctantly took when she considered the basis for comparison. 

 

They honeymooned in a small French town where boulangeries dotted every street, making it all too easy to heed the call of decadent French pastries. Even after a year of it, their habit hadn't lost its luster. It was still the easiest way for either of them to say 'I love you.'

 

Almost as soon as they had returned home and unpacked from their trip, Vesta received a message.

“Mycroft...there's a member of Parliament who needs to see you about something.” Her husband peeked over her shoulder, moving his lips silently as he read the adjoining message.

“Oh, fine, if I must.”

 

The drive down was quiet. Along the way, Vesta reached across to smooth Mycroft's tie, brushing his shoulders with a fond smile. He drew his finger along the pale pink scarf around her neck, and tucked a stray strand of hair back. They both seemed to enjoy these simple preening gestures. Soon, they pulled up to the designated building. The driver got each of their doors and they stepped off onto the pavement. Together, they pushed through the entryway. Side by side, they strolled easily down the hallway, swinging their umbrellas in unison. Along the way, a gaggle of Mycroft's usual political sycophants stood as they passed, murmuring:

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.”

The End


End file.
